Postcards From Ruritania
by Aenisses Thai
Summary: A solar eclipse, an electromagnetic surge, an MRI accident...and Robert Chase changes places with his fanfiction counterpart. Ch.15. Chase: "I'm not some perpetual victim, some thing that men play with, some bloody toy!"
1. The Sun has perished out of heaven

**Postcards from Ruritania **by Aenisses Thai

Disclaimer: All rights to House MD belong to David Shore, Heel and Toe Films and Bad Hat Harry Productions in association with NBC Universal Television Studio. I do not make any monetary profit from this fanfiction.

Spoiler Warning: Spoilers for Season Three through Episode 20, House-Training. Due to the radical shift in character relationships at the end of Season Three, I decided to keep this fic at a point in time _before_ the big changes, inserting it timewise between Episode 3-20, House-training, and 3-21 Family.

Other warnings: Rated T for mature themes, language, and sexual situations. References to slash (male/male), het (male/female), and polyamorous (more than two people) relationships. Pairings: Fanfic Chase/ everyone; Canon Chase/ who knows?

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**  
Chapter One.** **". . . and the Sun has perished out of heaven, and an evil mist hovers over all."** Homer, _The Odyssey  
_

"There's a solar eclipse today, you know."

The tone was neutral, but Cameron could read the fretfulness beneath. Then curled her lip, because she didn't want to read his feelings, she had no interest in his feelings and was perfectly happy going through the rest of her life with no regard for his feelings whatsoever. Ever. Whatever.

"The total eclipse is up in Canada, but we'd be able to get a view of the partial eclipse. We're in the penumbra, the partially shadowed part of the Earth. It would be cool to see. If we could get outside, that is."

She drew in a breath, ready to tell him to shut up, nobody cared about the eclipse but him, and would he just stop whining about it? But then she wondered if she was being too bitchy to him, and if her bitchiness could be interpreted as interest in him or some twisted sort of affection, or if she were being just plain mean. She bit her lip, determined not to give in to the urge to yell at him and berate him for every single word that fell from his lips. Because she wasn't mad at him, not really. Not mad, not pissed off, (_not sexually frustrated_), not angry because he broke the rules and ruined everything, ruined their easy fun and laughter and somehow forced her into becoming the Bad Guy who broke his heart. _She_ wasn't the bad guy, he was: he was the Liar, Liar, Pants-on-fire who went ahead and fell in love with her when it was understood that they weren't going to do that, and—

"You can't look directly at the sun during the eclipse, you know; it'd burn out your retinas in a few seconds. But there's this device that allows you—"

"Would you shut up about the damn eclipse already?"

Cameron let out her pent-up breath, glad that it was Foreman who'd finally exploded at Chase and not her. Her wave of relief passed quickly, however, when she glanced over at Chase and saw him quietly withdrawing, closing his mouth firmly as if determined to let no words escape that weren't directly related to medicine. And that twinge in her chest had nothing to do with regret, and it wasn't a surge of anger she felt towards Foreman for being such a prick, because she knew that Foreman was still suffering over his lost patient in spite of the support that both she and Chase had offered him. Unlike the way Judge Foreman had been ready to lynch Chase for his mistake last year.

No, she wasn't defensively angry on Chase's behalf. Because she didn't care about his feelings. At all.

Chase leaned toward the MRI intercom and raised his voice. "We're ready for the contrast dye injection, House."

The masked and gowned figure with the syringe glared up at them through the glass, and the familiar sarcastic tones crackled through the speaker. "Oh, no hurry, Dr. Chase. Our patient is perfectly willing to wait here for the next hour or two while you put a box over your head and gape at the sky. Don't let something as small as a major diagnostic technique interrupt your fun."

Chase flushed and switched off the intercom, carefully avoiding the glances of his colleagues. On an impulse, Cameron leaned forward and flicked the intercom back on. "Stop fooling around, House; you were the one who wanted to be on point for this test, so let's just get it over with."

"Defending your lover?" came the reply. "Oh, that's right, I forgot—you already kicked him to the curb. So this must be some of your residual bleeding-heart feelings, like the itch an amputee feels in a severed limb."

She drew in a breath, wondering if she should give the angry response he was obviously trying to provoke, but a faint pressure on her wrist distracted her. Chase quickly removed his fingers from her wrist and gave a slight shake of his head, all the while avoiding her eyes.

_Don't bother. Not worth it._

Why couldn't she seem to stop reading him?

The intercom crackled again. "Since I only need two of you over there to scan the MRI, why don't you send Captain Planet in here? He can make himself a little less useless. Maybe."

Chase sighed but got to his feet immediately, flicking off the intercom switch and leaving the shielded booth. Cameron saw him reappear within moments, hastily donning a Tyvek gown. Before pulling on his gloves, he glanced at his watch and exchanged a few words with House, who responded with an irritated gesture. Cameron switched on the intercom again without bothering to glance at Foreman.

"…just a shadow, you idiot! It doesn't affect anything, let alone an MRI."

"That's not true. Solar eclipses have been shown to affect biological systems like birds nesting and migration patterns—"

"Bored now, point please," House sing-songed.

"Look, it couldn't hurt to wait ten minutes before firing up the machine, just to be safe. Mrs. Gideon is sedated, so she won't mind—"

"But _I_ mind. I mind having to stand here and listen to your idiocy even one moment longer than absolutely necessary."

Foreman let out a snicker, and Cameron switched the intercom off quickly, not wanting to add to Chase's usual humiliation. House rotated his hand to signal his other two fellows to start up the MRI without interrupting his tirade at Chase. Foreman hit the switches, and the machine hummed, control panel lights flashing as the magnetic core lit up preparatory to the actual scan.

Chase stepped around the MRI table, giving the patient one last once-over before he and House would be forced back to the shielded booth. Cameron could tell by the slight hunching of his shoulders that he was still fending off House's barbed comments, but she was distracted by a sudden vibration beneath her fingertips.

"Did you feel that?" she asked Foreman, but he was staring at the wildly flickering lights on the control panel.

"What the—?" He tapped frantically at the keyboard with little effect. Now Cameron began noticing a rising pitch to the MRI's normal hum, and the machine started the loud banging noise of an active scan. House snapped his head up and pointed at the booth, obviously shouting at them.

"Shut it off!" she yelled at Foreman. "They're still in there unshielded—"

"I never turned it on!" He continued to hammer frantically at the keyboard.

Chase came up behind House and shoved him at the control booth, then grabbed the patient, pulling her from the table. The MRI core light flashed erratically as the banging grew louder and faster, accompanied by a rising, strident hum. The room lights also started flickering, until Cameron felt as if she were in a funhouse, catching brief glimpses of figures moving jerkily in the strobes.

House, almost to the booth, turning around to shout at Chase.

Chase on his knees, carefully lowering the patient to the farthest corner from the malfunctioning machine.

In another flash, Cameron saw House start back towards Chase.

"House!" she screamed and leapt for the door, yanking it open and catching House's arm, throwing him off-balance so that he fell backwards into the booth.

There was a shriek of electronic overload and a blinding flash, and the lights went out, plunging the room into darkness.

* * *

It was as if the world had vanished, and there was no up or down, no point of reference, just the acrid scent of ozone and the sound of loud, ragged panting in her ears. Cameron struggled to hear what was going on, but the damned panting was drowning everything out, and she wished it would just _stop_— 

"Ouch!" complained House, the simple word anchoring her. "It's bad enough that you can't restrain yourself from manhandling me; the least you can do is stop sucking up all the oxygen in the room."

Cameron realized that it was her own panicked breathing resounding in her ears, and she made a concentrated effort to calm herself. Something bumped her from behind, and she shifted forward, allowing Foreman to move around her to the doorway of the booth.

"House, are you all right?"

"I will be, as soon as you get your damn foot off my hand. Nice to know that the architect of this little disaster cares enough to grind his victims all the way into the dust."

"You know damn well that I didn't do anything wrong." The words were usual Foreman-arrogant, but he sounded distracted. "The emergency lights should've kicked on by now. Chase, is Mrs. Gideon all right?"

Silence.

Cameron felt House shift away from her and heard the clatter of his cane and his grunt of effort as he levered himself up into a standing position. "Earth to Captain Planet. Answer now, before I land your sneaky ass with forty extra hours of my clinic duty."

Nothing.

"Chase, if you don't speak up within the next two seconds, you can consider your British ass fired."

Again, silence.

"Fuck!" House pushed away from the booth, his cane tapping and banging against obstacles as he tried to maneuver through the pitch-black room. Cameron found herself crawling after him, not caring about how ridiculous she looked, not caring about anything except finding where Chase was hidden in this darkness.

The room seemed to have expanded to twice its normal size, and she panicked for a moment, unaccountably afraid of becoming lost in the tomblike murk. The tapping of House's cane was her only reference point, so she followed it closely until she crawled straight into something solid but yielding. "Over here!"

"That's me, stupid," muttered House, but he was busy with something, his elbows bumping against her as his arms moved back and forth. "Pulse even, respirations slow but steady, everything seems fine—"

"Thank God!" she burst out.

"Whom you don't believe in, but no matter; I'm sure the patient appreciates your sentiment on her behalf."

"But where's Chase?"

"I'm hiding him in my back pocket, what do you think?" House snarled. "He should've been right near here, damn it!" Cameron felt her heart drop at the raw anger in House's voice. If House was worried enough to drop his sarcastic shield, then—she didn't want to think what it meant.

"Hey guys, I think—" said Foreman, just as the emergency lights came up with a low hum. He was crouched over a prone figure face-down near the wall opposite the MRI. They must have crawled right past him on their way to the far side of the room.

House moved faster than Cameron had ever seen him move before, flinging his cane aside as he pulled Chase over onto his back. He pressed two fingers to his neck, then impatiently pulled Chase's white lab coat open and pressed his ear to his chest.

"No heartbeat, no pulse," he growled as he pulled off Chase's tie and tore open the ugly yellow-striped shirt. "Call a code, Foreman, and get a crash team here stat! Cameron, grab the defib paddles and one milligram of epi. Move!" He started CPR with five double-handed presses to Chase's heart.

Cameron rushed over with the portable defibrillator and a syringe of epinephrine, concentrating on keeping each movement quick and efficient, ignoring the shrieking panic in her brain. "Charging—_Clear!"_ she warned and pressed the paddles to Chase's chest. His body arched under the shock, then collapsed into stillness once again.

House pressed his ear to Chase's chest, and shook his head. "Again!"

And again. And again. Cameron felt as if she were in a dream or a fugue state, only dimly aware of Foreman injecting Chase, House continuing with the CPR, herself shouting 'Clear' time and again. Her focus was on Chase's pale face, his blue-tinged lips, the utter stillness of hands that were usually twitching, handling objects, spinning pencils endlessly between his long fingers…

"Shit!" House fell back, clutching at his right thigh. "Cramp, damn it! Take over, Cameron!"

Sometime during all this, more people arrived in the room, the excited, urgent voices reduced to background buzz in her mind. She was dimly aware of them wheeling away Mrs. Gideon but kept her focus on the repetitive motions: five pumps to the heart, followed by blowing a long breath of air into his lungs. Back away for Foreman's defib or injection, check Chase for a heartbeat, start over again. A hand tried to pull her shoulder away, but she shook it off impatiently, bending over to open her lips against Chase's again, feeling them cold beneath her own, remembering that short time past when they'd been so warm, trembling as he'd pressed his mouth to hers—

"Cameron, stop." It was Foreman's voice, quiet and defeated. She didn't bother to look up, only shaking her head fiercely as she waved him away.

As she bent over Chase again, she heard a strange voice, tinged with sympathy. "Dr. House, you have to call it; the time—"

"Fuck off!" The voice lashed out, the rage burning her, _burning_ her, so hot and real and close that she thought it'd been her own cry of fury. But it was House's warm breath on her cheek as he pressed the paddles to Chase's chest yet again. _"Clear!"_

She pulled back, watching Chase jerk again under the shock, looking almost as if he were alive (_what was she thinking, almost?)_ before collapsing back into stillness. The rising tones of insistent voices all around her: "…down too long…irreparable brain damage…past all hope…"

"I said, _Fuck off!"_ House roared. "If you're not going to help, stay out of my way! In fact, why don't you get the fuck out of here?"

She heard quiet footsteps as the crash team backed out of the room, their murmurs to each other low and regretful: "…nothing we can do now…shame…with that bastard for years…"

She felt another hand on her shoulder and looked up this time. House looked terrible, his eyes wild and furious, his lips white as he grimaced in frustration. Foreman crouched beside him, his gaze hopeless beneath the beads of sweat rolling down his face. She felt her own shirt sticking to her back, and she pushed a straggling strand of hair out of her face.

House moved in and started pumping on Chase's chest again as he glared at them. "Another try. Foreman, I want another seven milligrams of epi. Cameron, double the voltage on the defibrillator."

"You're crazy!" Foreman burst out. "Even if we managed to shock his heart into a giant leap, that amount of current will fry his neural pathways! Not to mention that seven milligrams of epinephrine is toxic in itself, let alone on top of all the other doses you've given him! You're going to—"

"Kill him?" House's tone was low and dangerous. "As opposed to leaving him lying here, all rosy-cheeked and healthy? What do you suggest, Foreman—that we let Chase sleep it off?"

Foreman flushed and looked away. "I'm just saying that we have to face—"

"_NO!"_ House and Foreman stared at Cameron, startled at the ferocity of her tone. "Get the goddamn epi now, Foreman!" She glared at House. "I've already doubled the voltage setting."

A faint smile ghosted across his face, and he nodded at her. They bent over Chase again, administering one last cycle of CPR. Cameron exhaled into his mouth with all of her strength. _Breathe, damn you._

A syringe was thrust into her hand, and she injected Chase as House fired up the defibrillator.

"_Clear!"_

The paddles practically buzzed with the force of the current, and Chase's body arched up violently, almost knocking House over. Chase fell back, limp, as Foreman pushed forward and pressed a stethoscope to his chest. He looked back at them, his eyes glistening with emotion.

Cameron felt her own breath stopping, her chest constricting as a wave of despair crested over her.

"No, no," Foreman choked when he saw her expression. "It's a heartbeat—you guys got his heart beating again!"

Only then did Cameron allow the tears to come.

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_To be continued_…

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Thank you for reading. 

Aenisses 11-June-2007


	2. Vigil

Disclaimer: All rights to House MD belong to David Shore, Heel and Toe Films and Bad Hat Harry Productions in association with NBC Universal Television Studio. I do not make any monetary profit from this fanfiction.

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**Chapter Two. Vigil**

She stood at the conference room window, watching darkness wash across the sky until only a faint glow remained on the western horizon. Feeling weary to her bones, as if she'd just finished a marathon, she absently catalogued each ache: sore back, burning triceps, throbbing headache, and a sharp pain in one wrist where she must've strained it during the nightmare crawl through the MRI room.

All the same, a smile played across her lips, and she sent a brief prayer of thankfulness to…whomever might be out there, listening or not. Maybe even to House.

The conference room door creaked open, and a familiar uneven tread approached. Cameron's smile widened, but she kept her eyes fixed on the window. She wanted to share this moment of quiet triumph and bittersweet emotion with him but knew that he would find some excuse to flee if she tried to meet his eyes.

"You did good in there today." His voice was low and gruff.

She nodded at her reflection. "You, too. And Foreman as well."

"So I guess we all deserve a raise. Except Chase; his ass I'm gonna fire."

"For what?" Amusement at his empty threat bubbled through her. "Frightening you?"

There was a moment's hesitation, confirmation of her direct hit, before he recovered. "No, for making me throw a leg cramp. I don't need my underlings putting me through calisthenics in the middle of the day."

"I'll try to remember that."

She could see his reflection clearly now, his features twisted in a strange expression. "I'm also going to fire him for making me run the MRI during a solar eclipse; damn fool should've waited ten minutes, then we wouldn't have ended up breaking the machine and endangering the patient."

She whirled around, shocked. "He did want to wait! It was _your_ idea to—" She stopped, finally recognizing the unfamiliar expression on his face; unfamiliar for him, anyway. "Never mind. It's no one's fault; solar eclipses have nothing to do with electromagnetic power surges, so you have no reason to feel guilty."

"I don't. Guilt is for idiots and suckers." He moved past her to stare out at the sky. "I'm mad because Chase didn't stick to his guns and force me to listen to him. Now the MRI magnetic core is busted again, and Cuddy's all over my ass. Said that she'd deduct it from my salary, except then she'd be stuck with me working for her for the next fifty years, and that was too much for her to face at the moment, what with members of her staff in the ICU and all. So you see? It's all Chase's fault."

"That inconsiderate bastard," Cameron agreed.

House turned to look at her, a faint smile quirking his lips. "You're awfully Zen at the moment. Yet just a few hours ago, I saw you crying."

"Girls do that sometimes. Boys, too, come to think of it."

"Yes, but under what circumstances?" His eyes suddenly narrowed, pinning her in place. "Are you in love with him?"

Cameron lifted her chin. "There's so much wrong with you even asking that question, and no possible answer that is any of your business, so I'm going to deal with it by pretending temporary deafness."

The smirk was back in full force. "I could shout the question in the hospital atrium."

"And I could sing, La, la, la at the top of my lungs, and believe me, you don't want to hear me sing."

"That bad?"

"Terminal tone deafness." She walked back to the conference table and picked up her purse. "I think I'll go home for a few hours, try to catch a little sleep before getting back to the ICU in the morning." She hesitated. "You should get some rest as well."

House waved at his office. "Can't leave now; I'm about to reach the next level on Super Mario Brothers, and I don't want to lose my gaming groove."

Cameron bit her lip, seeing through his reason for staying. "You don't have to worry; I was just with him, and he's still out. But his pulse and respirations are normal, and the staff says—"

"That everything's going to be fine? Has the ICU staff acquired clairvoyance in the past few days, that they can diagnose the extent of brain damage in a newly comatose patient?"

Cameron winced at the bitterness in his tone.

"Never mind. If I do go down there—mind that I said _if_—it'll only be to see if I still have an Aussie fellow, or if he's been replaced by a new lunch partner."

"House!"

"What? It's not so bad. Chase has nice flat abs; I should be able to balance my soda can and chips there easily."

Cameron gritted her teeth and kept hold of her temper. "You're upset, I understand. Just try not to—try to get some rest. Chase is going to be fine."

House looked at her, his expression unguarded for once, angry and a little lost. "So you're the clairvoyant one now?"

"No. He's going to be fine, because it can't turn out—" She caught her breath before continuing in a whisper, "...because he has to be." Picking up her jacket, she walked out the door.

* * *

There were times when he missed having two good legs—well, all right, those times were _every fucking_ _day_—but they were usually associated with pain(smiley face scale from straight line mouth to full downturned half-circle) or being faced with a long flight of stairs to somewhere he had to go. Less often did he miss the aesthetic aspects of being one of the non-gimped. After all, chicks did seem to dig his cane (_snerk!),_ but there was no denying that his regular gait made him look like Captain Ahab on a bender. 

Which made the stealth factor slight to nonexistent when he was trying to sneak past the nurse's station in the ICU. Best to brazen it out, maybe put a little strut in his step. Strut…cane-gimp. Strut…cane-gimp.

Smooth.

"Excuse me, but you can't go in there."

Fuck.

House turned around, displaying his best arrogant doctor face as he flipped his hospital ident at the stocky blonde nurse. "See this? It's an all-access pass to the best rides in this place, like the E-ticket at Disney World. New here, aren't you?"

"Yep," replied the nurse, her eyes crinkling slightly. "Nice to know that there're still some folks around old enough to remember the E-ticket without confusing it with Ebay and Email. But you still can't go in there. Dr. Cuddy's orders."

"Damn, is she still holding a grudge against me for that one night stand? I know that I'd promised to call, but I suffer from these terrible memory lapses."

"Wait a minute." The nurse leaned forward, squinting at the badge that hung from House's jacket. "Oh, Dr. House. You're permitted to visit the patient. Dr. Cuddy warned me to be on the lookout for you."

"The devilishly handsome doctor-with-a-cane?"

"No, the smartass with the inappropriate sexual comments about her."

House answered her grin with one of his own. "So why the Gorgon at the Gate routine, Nurse, er, _Angelina?"_ He quirked an eyebrow at her ID badge.

"Yeah, I catch crap about that all the time, never mind that I owned the name at least ten years before the famous chick. Anyway, I'm here to keep this place from turning into a circus." Her brows drew together in a forbidding manner. "That's a sick boy in there, not a sideshow, and I'm keeping non-essential personnel from dropping by to gawp at him. Buncha jackals."

"I assume you're talking about my esteemed colleagues, specifically giggling or teary-eyed ingenue nurses?"

"Long-nosed clinicians as well. Hospital personnel always eat their own, don't they?"

"That they do. Keep up the good work, Nurse Angelina—and I think I like you better than your more famous counterpart." House made a mock-sad face. "She won't take my phone calls, for one."

"And you think I will? You're not that devilishly handsome, buster. Now get in there."

House opened his mouth to exchange more witty repartee but realized that he was stalling. Saluting Nurse Angelina with his cane, he squared his shoulders and entered the glass-walled cubicle.

The room was filled with the soft mechanical murmur of machines going about their business: the low hiss of the automatic blood pressure cuff as it deflated, the click of the IV meter, the steady beeping of the EKG. Chase lay among the wires and monitors, looking impossibly young with his face slack and innocent in the dim fluorescent light, even younger than he had on the day House hired him four years ago.

House stood at the foot of the bed, absently noting the monitor readings (all good, as Cameron had reported) and twisting his cane in his hands. Fighting back the familiar frustration at a diagnosis yet to be elucidated, he restrained himself from shaking Chase awake. Probably would earn him a beating from Nurse Angelina anyway, for daring to disturb the "sick boy."

"So what is it?" Despite his lowered volume, his voice sounded harsh in the quiet surroundings. "Are you in there, Chase? Or did the heart-deprived minutes turn you into a future star of Veggie Tales?"

The EKG suddenly blipped out a rapid series of beats. House leaned forward, staring at the monitor until the beats settled back to a steady rate of sixty-two per minute.

"Weird," he muttered. There was a flash of color in his peripheral vision, and suddenly Nurse Angelina was beside him in her brightly patterned smock, making notes on a clipboard.

"Just here for his hourly vitals," she said softly, then raised her voice. "Dr. Chase, your vitals are looking good, but I'd like to talk to you. Can you hear me?"

No answer but the soft click-hiss of the machinery.

"All right, I know you're tired," Angelina said. "But let me know if you need anything, Dr. Chase."

"You like talking to mindless lumps? Or are you just enamored of the sound of your own voice?"

Angelina shot House a look but was distracted by the increased activity on the EKG. "That's odd." She put on her stethoscope and listened to Chase's heart for a few moments. "All right, it's slowing down again. No irregularities." She raised her voice once again. "Can you hear me, Dr. Chase? Are you trying to say something?"

Nothing.

House sighed. "Well, as much fun as this has been, I'm going to have to go. I have some paint drying on my office walls that's promising more entertainment than this one-sided ventriloquist show."

The EKG picked up again.

"You're not going anywhere," Angelina said thoughtfully. "It's your voice that Dr. Chase is responding to, so you're going to stay right here and talk to him until he wakes up."

"Like hell! I've got better things to do than perform a stand-up monologue for Rocko the Unconscious Wallaby."

Nurse Angelina moved so that her stocky figure blocked the doorway.

"Nice," said House, amused. "So you like doing things by force? I warn you, I'm not a wrestler, but I watch them on TV."

"Then you know that I'm over your weight class," Angelina replied cheerfully. "One good hit to the knees, and you'll go down like butter."

"You're mixing your metaphors." House's expression was caught between a scowl and a smirk as he took a reluctant seat in the chair next to Chase's bed. "Did it ever occur to you the reason his heart rate increases when he hears my voice is that he's terrified of me?"

"As long as you terrorize him into consciousness, I don't really care."

"You're a hard woman. I take back what I said about liking you."

"So I guess I shouldn't expect your phone call in the morning," she shot back over her shoulder as she returned to the nurses' station.

"Nobody likes a smartass," House grumbled as he shifted his chair to get a clear view of the EKG monitor, carefully stretching his right leg into a more comfortable position. "All right, Chase, this day is fast giving you a permanent place in my black books. First you make me throw a leg cramp, then you get me in trouble with Cuddy, and now you're turning me into a virtual prisoner in your room, thanks to Nurse Ratched. If you have any hope of ever getting on my good side again, you'd better wake up now."

He observed the EKG clicking up to eighty beats per minute before dropping back to sixty as he kept silent.

"Boo!" he shouted in Chase's face.

Nothing.

"Myocardial infarction. Creutzfeldt-Jakob Disease. Damn, I hate that one; it's a real tongue twister. Pheochromocytoma. Now that one rolls off the lips easily."

Still nothing.

House sighed. "So individual words don't cut it; only real conversation, right? You're losing points by the minute, Chase."

Heart rate back up to eighty.

"Fine, then what should we talk about? The weather? Sorry, haven't been outside today due to fun developments in the MRI. Mrs. What's-Her-Name was diagnosed on Princeton General's machine since you_ broke _ours—adrenal gland tumor, which has Foreman obnoxiously puffed up with himself. Damn fool can't see that I tossed him that case as a 'gimme.' Okay, I'm done; your turn to contribute to the conversation."

The EKG blipped merrily along to eighty beats per minute.

"Bor-ing." House glanced across the room to the nurses' station outside, noting Nurse Angelica focused on entering data into her computer. He began to rise slowly from his chair, only to have her hold up a warning finger without taking her eyes off the screen. "Devil woman. Ever notice how people with the most sickeningly sweet names are the ones most likely to conduct human sacrifice? All those Bunnys, Kittys, Muffys, and Angels are more inclined to rip out your liver with their teeth than start a glee club. Or maybe do both at the same time."

Chase's heart rate kept up as long as House kept talking. He sighed again. "Okay, last shot, because I'm leaving to get a drink in the next two minutes, Nurse Ratched and her cattle prod be damned. Let's do a quick differential on the current patient. Male, twenty-eight years old, heart attack due to unknown causes during an electromagnetic surge, resultant coma. Responds only to his boss's voice, but why?"

House pushed packaged syringes and a plastic cup off Chase's bedside table and began writing on it with a Sharpie marker. "Apparent need to please, causing patient to respond even when unable to speak or move while in coma. This urge is obviously deep-seated in the subconscious, so as much as I would like to claim it's person-specific, evidence indicates that the need-to-please compulsion is of many years duration, predating his employment. Next obvious diagnosis is daddy issues…" House stopped and tapped his cane against his left leg in thought.

"But as I understand it, Daddy Chase wasn't around much for Little Chase's formative years, which makes him an unlikely candidate for the role of He-Who-Must-Be-Appeased. Add in known fact of custodial mother as alcoholic, and I believe we have a match." House frowned. "Then again, there's the whole Vogler fiasco, and I honestly don't see Vogler as a Mother Figure—except for the man-boobs, of course."

Chase's heart rate leapt up to ninety beats per minute, and House smirked. "Yeah, I thought that one was pretty funny myself. You always did get my jokes."

Suddenly uncomfortable with the past tense sound of the last statement, House bent over the differential table again. "Okay, that indicates the psychological Need-to-Please-Mommy as the cause of the coma-heart rate increase, which, I'll have you know, creeps me out even worse than the substitute Daddy thing. But what other reason could there be for you to respond to my voice?"

"Love," said Chase.

* * *

_To be continued _

* * *

Thank you for reading. 

Aenisses 15-June-2007


	3. Awakenings

Disclaimer: All rights to House MD belong to David Shore, Heel and Toe Films and Bad Hat Harry Productions in association with NBC Universal Television Studio. I do not make any monetary profit from this fanfiction.

* * *

**Chapter Three. Awakenings**

House jumped so violently that the marker shot across the room and his cane clattered to the floor.

Nurse Angelina was at the doorway in a heartbeat. "What's going on?"

"He spoke," said House, fishing around for his cane.

Angelina went immediately to Chase's bedside, lifting his eyelids and shining a penlight into his eyes. "What did he say?"

"What does it matter?" House hedged.

Angelina stopped fussing over Chase long enough to fix House with another look. "Well, _Doctor _House, as I'm sure you already know, if he said something nonsensical like 'Moof' or something as deep-seated as 'Mommy', it doesn't necessarily indicate a return to full consciousness. On the other hand, if he articulated a thought, especially in response to a question, then I feel justified in paging the neurologist on call."

House tapped his cane against the floor. "He said…vole."

"_Vole?"_

"Yes, vole," replied House impatiently. "Small furry rodent, a type of field mouse."

"And you were discussing rodents because…?"

"I was playing a word association game with him. You know: fat-thin, short-tall, cat—"

"Vole," finished Angelina, dumping a truckload of skepticism into the one syllable. "First word that leaps to _my_ mind every time, I agree." She narrowed her eyes at House and was given a limpid blue-eyed stare in return. "Fine, I'm going out to page Dr. Patel. That'll give you two time alone to discuss _voles_ to your heart's content." She left the room with a swish of solid hips.

"All right, Chase." House moved swiftly to the bedside, lifting Chase's eyelids only to see his eyes still rolled back. He snapped his fingers sharply under Chase's nose. "Wakey-wakey, before I break-y, break-y your nose with my cane. Don't think for a minute that a little thing like a coma is going to protect you from the consequences of trying to mind-fuck me. _Wake up!"_

Chase shuddered suddenly, emitting a faint sound.

"Hah!" shouted House triumphantly. "I knew it was an act! All this time you've been…hm, interesting rapid eye movement there. Dreaming, are we? Maybe that explains the insanity of your last statement."

Chase groaned, trying to lift his hand to his head but stopped by the IV line snagged around the bedrail. House moved to free it just as Chase opened both eyes.

The green-blue gaze was foggy, but House deliberately moved into his line of sight, hoping to see Chase flinch.

Instead, Chase blinked until he was able to focus properly. He looked straight at House, his gaze softening as he broke into a beatific smile. "Greg…you're here." His eyes filled with tears. "I knew you'd stay with me."

House jumped back, hitting his elbow on the bed table and knocking his cane to the floor again. He retrieved it while glaring at Chase, unreasonably annoyed that he'd been the first to flinch. "Listen, Coma-boy, a near-death experience doesn't give you a free pass to address me by my first name." He assumed a vicious smirk. "That privilege is only for employees who put out for me."

He expected Chase's usual eye-roll or aggravated look. Instead, he received a soft, secretive smile. "I know that…Greg."

The cane made another wild dash for escape, but this time House snagged it before it hit the floor. "Just what exactly are you—!" He stopped and shook a finger at Chase, an appreciative smile gracing his features. "Oh, I get it. Payback for not listening to you about the MRI. All right, Chase, points for being clever, and extra points for coming up with this diabolical plot while still in a coma. Provided that we keep your successful venture into punk'dom between us, I'll excuse you from covering my clinic hours for the next two weeks; Foreman and Cameron deserve the extra work anyway." He paused when he saw Chase's lips trembling. "What's wrong?"

"You called me Chase." Chase's voice was low and desolate.

House's eyebrows climbed up to hold a conference with his hairline. "Ye-es, well, as far as I know, that's your name. Not that I haven't used it as a curse in the past, but…"

"You usually call me Robert," Chase interrupted.

House took a breath, waiting for his brain to kick in with a witty reply, but ended up settling for, "Nuh-uh."

"Yes, you do. You call me Robert or Robbie or your little wombat—unless you're breaking up with me; that's when you go back to calling me Chase." The saddest blue-green eyes in the world turned up to stare at him. "Are you breaking up with me again, Greg?"

House slammed his cane into the floor. "You see, this is why you youngsters never really get from _d'oh_ humor to true wittiness—you don't know when to let go of a joke! Timing is everything, Chase; you really had me going, I was totally pawned, the whole nine yards. But now you keep beating the joke till it's dead, and it's not funny anymore, just pathetic!"

Chase literally flinched away from House's harsh words. "You think I'm pathetic," he whispered as he stared down at the blanket covering his legs.

"No, he doesn't." Nurse Angelica materialized behind House, clamping her hand down on his shoulder in a gesture more reminiscent of prison guard than friendly colleague. "He's just upset by what happened to you, Dr. Chase, and he's displacing his worry by lashing out. I'll bet he does that a lot, right?"

"Yeah," said Chase sadly, but he sneaked a hopeful peek at House through his eyelashes.

"I'm not dis—Yiii!" Angelina had furtively slid her hand up from House's shoulder to his neck, and now had him literally by the short hairs. "Damn it, woman, don't you have some other people to torture?"

"Nope, I've already got all my other charges tied up in IV lines," replied Angelina serenely. "Dr. Chase, if you'll excuse us for a moment, I'd like to have a private word with Dr. House. Would you mind stepping outside with me, Dr. House?"

House opened his mouth to protest, but Chase reached out frantically between the bedrails. "You're coming back, right?"

"I'm outta here," House muttered at the same time Nurse Angelina said, "Of course he's coming back. I promise._"_

They exited the room, House turning his back firmly on Chase's tear-filled eyes and taking a moment to remind himself that he wasn't _really_ kicking an injured puppy, contrary to all outward appearances. Nurse Angelina pulled the glass door shut on Chase's cubicle, then caught House at the ICU exit. She moved faster than he gave her credit for, House reflected glumly.

"Nurses aren't supposed to abuse doctors," he complained, freeing his arm from her vise-like grip. "It goes against the food chain, which happens to be my personal religious belief."

"Well, _my_ personal religious belief is that doctors aren't supposed to abuse patients in critical care units, and whaddaya know, hospital policy goes to my church."

"I wasn't abusing him! He was—" House gestured agitatedly, "he was jerking me around! Or suffering from delusions. Or—"

Nurse Angelina made a slashing motion that whistled right past House's nose. "I don't _care._ I don't care if he's delusional, or if you're so deep in the closet you can't see the light of day. I _Don't Care._ All that matters to me is that I've got a sick boy in ICU who may or may not have sustained brain damage during a traumatic heart attack, and who, for God only knows what reason, has decided that you're the only one who matters to him. So this is what you're going to do."

She took a deep breath and started counting off fingers. "One, you're going to go back in there and sit beside him. Two, you're going to call him Robert and allow him to call you Greg. Shut your mouth, I'm not done yet. Three, you're going to reassure him that you're not breaking up with him, and yeah, you can _still_ shut your mouth, because I don't care about what's real and what's fantasy; I only care about calming him down."

"Did it ever occur to you that encouraging a psych patient in his delusions isn't necessarily the best medical course of action?"

Angelina fixed House with a hard stare. "Did it ever occur to you that you were sending a newly-conscious patient into fits of agitation strong enough to induce another heart attack? Did you even bother to look at the monitors, or were you too busy defending your masculinity?"

For once, House couldn't think of anything to say, so he settled for giving back glare for glare.

"You _owe_ him," Angelina said, and the sudden softness of her tone made the words all the more emphatic. "I'm not one to gossip, but I do my fair share of listening, and I know that he wouldn't be in that bed right now if not for your pigheadedness. You didn't mean him harm, I can tell that just by looking at your face, but all the same, harm has been done. So you owe it to him to help him through this, and you can start by marching straight back to that room and telling him that you still care."

House tilted his head and squinted at Angelina.

"What?"

"Oh, nothing." He maneuvered around her as he headed back towards Chase's room, waiting until he reached the safety of the glass doors before turning around. "I was trying to calculate the number of cows who had to die to provide you with enough leather for the wicked dominatrix outfit you wear after work."

Angelina lifted one pale eyebrow. "What makes you think that I wait till after work? I'm wearing it right now, under the smock."

"Where do you keep your whip?"

"You'll find out if you don't get your butt in that room in the next two seconds."

"Devil woman."

"Gimp."

House grinned and pulled open the glass doors. Chase was lying back against the pillows with his eyes closed, but he opened them quickly at the sound of House's footsteps, a single tear escaping and running along his temple. He looked all of twelve years old, and suddenly, House found it surprisingly easy to follow Rule Number Two. "Hey there, uh, Robbie."

Joy, fear, and hope all battled each other in Robert's expression. "Greg! Does this mean that you're not going to break—"

"Nope," said House quickly, not wanting to hear the words. He glanced at the heart monitor and heaved an internal sigh as he settled into the bedside chair. "I'm going to stay right here."

Robert's heart rate slowed to normal, and he gave House a tired smile as he stretched out his hand. "Would you hold my hand until I fall asleep?"

House hesitated for a moment before reluctantly taking the proffered hand, laying it carefully in his so as to not disturb the IV needle. Robert sighed in contentment, his eyelashes fluttering as he slipped once more towards unconsciousness. "Love you, Greg," he murmured sleepily.

House gazed around the room, counting the floor tiles, reviewing the fifty primary causes of leukopenia, calculating twenty different ways of escaping clinic duty, and firmly avoiding any thoughts whatsoever on the implications of those three little words.

* * *

Everything ached on his body, even his eyebrows. He hadn't been in this much pain since his last rugby match in university, and although his head was pounding like fuckin hell, he was clear enough in his mind to know that uni was a long time past. 

So it wasn't footy that had done this to him. His eyelids felt weighted down with anvils, but his body sensed familiar surroundings: the scent of antiseptic floor cleaner, the whisper-hiss of medical machinery, the rough, nubbly feel of cheap cotton sheets, the murmur of low voices and squeak of cushioned shoes. _Hospital,_ whispered his conscious mind, while his subconscious whispered, _Home._

Another sensation began registering: the feel of his hair falling across his forehead again and again, as if stirred by a gentle breeze. But instead of a breeze, he felt cool fingertips, reminding him of a dream of years past: his mother caring and clear-eyed, hovering over his fever-stricken brow.

_Mum,_ he tried to say, but all that came out was a hoarse croak.

_Shhh, Robbie, don't worry, I'm here,_ soothed the phantom voice, and he could've wept, because how many years had it been since she'd called him Robbie and caressed his brow? He wanted to believe it, losing himself in the blissful comfort of her touch, but his brain fought back his heart and reminded him again that he was long out of university—and she'd died before he'd finished school.

So it had to be that he was dead, or they both were, and he vaguely wished that he could summon up the energy to care either way.

Someone cared, though. Someone was urging him, _Wake up. Wake up, Robbie. Robbie, you're scaring me. I need you to open your eyes, my little wombat._

_Wombat._ That was weird enough to give a jolt to his consciousness. Who the hell was bonkers enough to call him a wombat, aside from House that one time? Thank God it had only been once, and House had contented himself with other epithets for him, _idiot_ being his favorite. Wombat was just plain stupid when used as a pejorative or endearment; the equivalent of saying to an American, _oh, you porcupine, you._

He realized that his thoughts were either becoming more jumbled or, given that he was recognizing their randomness, clearer. Holding onto his last rational thought, that of House, he began piecing together his history: accelerated course of medical school, followed by an internal medicine residency overlapping with an intensivist fellowship, segueing from there into Diagnostics—

Suddenly, he lost his train of thought. Something weird was going on. There was a warm pressure on his mouth, and, if he didn't know better, he'd think he was being kissed.

Wait, he _was_ being kissed—and it was one of the best kisses of his life. Sweet and tender (_Cameron, _he thought) but more forceful than he'd expected from her, this kiss was infused with erotic desire. He couldn't help responding, giving into it, giving back, even as he felt a (_prickly_) unease. He had to open his eyes to see if she was there smiling at him, if she'd finally forgiven him…

His breath hitched, and the pressure on his mouth immediately ceased, to his relief _(disappointment_). Tears of effort slipped from his eyes as he fought to focus, trying to turn the fuzzy white glow and darker shadows into discernible shapes and objects. As he blinked rapidly, his surroundings were slowly becoming more distinct, especially the blur immediately in front of his eyes, shadings of dark and light sharpening into familiar curves and planes…

He flinched back violently, banging his head on the pillow. Not six inches away from him was House, the familiar features filling his entire line of sight. Heart pounding frantically, he tried to croak out words and, at the same time, tried to scramble backwards while lying down.

It was a stupid question, but he couldn't sense anyone else in the room, so—

"House, did you just _kiss_ me?"

Instead of smirking, House looked at him with some emotion he'd never seen in the man before (_tenderness?),_ and brushed back the hair from his brow as he leaned in—

At this point, Robert Chase decided that unconsciousness was the better part of valor, and escaped into oblivion once more.

* * *

_To be continued_

* * *

Thank you for reading. 

Aenisses 21-June-2007


	4. First Steps

Disclaimer: All rights to House MD belong to David Shore, Heel and Toe Films and Bad Hat Harry Productions in association with NBC Universal Television Studio. I do not make any monetary profit from this fanfiction.

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* * *

**Chapter Four. First Steps  
**

The second time Chase awoke, he was afraid to open his eyes. Everything was the same, the sounds and scents of the hospital, so unless he was dreaming within a dream, this part was real. As for the House thing…he shuddered and squeezed his eyes closed tightly. Nightmare: that would explain it. Nightmare or some convoluted form of Housian mindfuck.

He didn't know how much longer he could go on hiding behind his eyelids, however; the muscles around his eyes were growing tired from being clenched so tight. Not to mention, he had a feeling that he was being watched. The feeling grew stronger and stronger, overwhelming all other thoughts until, like the hero in a horror movie, he just had to open his eyes and_ see_—

"GYAHH!"

Beady eyes gleamed at him with a fixed, glassy stare, the face bristling with whiskers, and—

"Robert, what's wrong?"

He wrenched his eyes away to focus on the person leaning over him. "Cameron!" he gasped in relief. "Why is there a rodent next to my bed?"

She gave one of her indulgent smiles. "Silly, it's a wombat doll."

"All right, then," he checked his wrist for his racing pulse, "why is there a wombat doll next to my bed?"

"What, did you think I would forget?" She looked honestly confused. And adorable, wearing her reading glasses which, for some reason, always turned him on. He pushed away those thoughts _(…and now it's over_), and tried to get his mind back on track.

"How long have I been here?"

"Two days." Cameron pushed back a strand of her hair from where it dangled over her brow. "You really had us frightened, Robert."

Robert? She never called him that, not even during sex, when she called him…nothing at all, avoiding the use of his name as if it were, ironically, too personal. Sometimes while making love to her, he'd wanted to grab her shoulders, dig his fingers in, and say, 'I'm inside you; I'm _inside_ you, damn it, and you're still afraid of letting me get too close?' But he never did, because he'd been afraid_ (…and now it's over.)_

He had to stop thinking this way. He had to stop waiting, hanging on her every word in hope of reading some true feeling for him beneath. He had to keep his feelings compartmentalized, expressing his desires for only five seconds each Tuesday.

"What day is today?" he asked out of nowhere.

"Wednesday."

Damn.

Chase pushed himself up into a sitting position, grateful that his body aches had subsided to a few twinges. He checked out the various monitors in the ICU cubicle. "What happened to me, anyway? I'm not sure…"

"Neither are we," she confessed, fussing with his pillows until she was satisfied with their arrangement. "One moment, we were running a standard MRI, and the next moment, the lights were down and you'd disappeared. When the lights came back up, you were on the floor unconscious and we couldn't wake you." A line appeared between her brows. "Here's the odd thing: for some reason, you were wearing a Tyvek gown instead of your usual lab coat."

"That's not odd," Chase shook his head. "I'd put on the Tyvek gown when I went down to assist House." A wave of pain informed him that the head-shaking was probably not a good idea. "Ouch."

"Does your head hurt? I can get you some Vicodin if you'd like."

"No thanks," Chase replied, taking care not to shake his head again. "One Diagnostics doctor hooked on Vicodin is enough, don't you think?" He grinned at her giggle; God, how long had it been since Cameron had allowed herself to laugh with him? "By the way, that reminds me: I had a really weird dream when I woke up earlier, probably due to the morphine drip or somesuch."

"Really? What was it about?"

"Unh-uh. If I tell you, you're going to mock me for the rest of the year."

Cameron looked genuinely wounded. "Why would you think that of me? I'd never say anything to hurt you."

Chase raised his eyebrows in disbelief, but Cameron seemed sincere for once. He relented. "Well, the dream seemed to involve House—"

"Oh, all right, TMI," she said hurriedly. "I don't need to hear the details; I see enough in real life."

"What? What are you talking about?"

She twisted her hands in her lap, suddenly embarrassed. "Never mind. Maybe…maybe I'm just a little jealous, seeing what you have. With him."

"Seeing what I have with House," Chase repeated slowly. "You mean the fellowship?"

"If that's what you want to call it. You two are pretty close, you know." Cameron began speaking very quickly. "Gosh, you don't know what he's been like the past couple of days; throwing markers at us, yelling, sending us off on wild goose chases—"

"Sounds like business as usual."

"No, really, he's worse. He gets like this every time you get hurt—"

"What do you mean by 'every time'? This isn't a common thing, me ending up in hospital. As a patient, I mean." He stopped, surprised by the overwhelming pity in her gaze. "Why are you looking at me that way?"

"We were afraid this might happen," she said in a stricken whisper. "That one day, it would all be too much for you, and your mind would shut down and go into complete denial."

"Complete denial about _what?"_

They were interrupted by a food service attendant bustling into the room with a tray. "Nurses' station called, said that you were getting better. Doctor's orders are for clear food only: chicken broth, jello, juice, and tea. But if you manage to keep this down, we'll bring you some ice cream later and perhaps some solid food for dinner."

Chase knew the diet well, having prescribed it himself a few times for those rare ICU patients who could actually eat. Normally, he'd turn up his nose at hospital food, but for some reason the chicken broth smelled good, and he realized he was starving—two days worth of starving, if he'd understood Cameron correctly. He reached for the tray, but Cameron batted his hand away.

"Take the tray away, please," she ordered the attendant.

"Why?" Chase protested. "I'm not on respirator, my swallow reflex is fine, and there's nothing wrong with my GI tract, is there?"

Cameron gave him a soft, understanding smile. "You don't have to pretend with me, Robert; I know that you have no intention of eating anything here."

"Yes, I do." He reached for the tray and got his hand slapped again. "Bloody hell!" he protested, glaring at Cameron.

She still wore that sickeningly sweet smile. "No, it's all right. I know you're too self-conscious to eat in front of me; you don't have to force yourself."

"I'm not forcing myself," he said through gritted teeth. "I'm really hungry, and I'll be happy to eat my lunch in front of you, the nursing staff, and the entire board of directors, if need be. Now give me back my food!"

"He's so brave," Cameron confided to the attendant. "But he has an eating disorder, so please remove the food at once; you can see that it's upsetting him."

The attendant took one look at Chase's scowling, flushed face, and quickly exited the room, tray in hand. Chase pounded his fist against a pillow in frustration. "I don't know what you're playing at, Cameron, but—"

At that moment, her pager went off, and she frowned at the message. "That's odd; what does Dr. Cuddy want with me? I guess I'd better hurry." She squeezed Chase's shoulder sympathetically. "I'm sorry I have to leave you, but I'll be back as soon as I can. I'll even write you a scrip for Valium, if you're still feeling out-of-sorts."

"I'd rather have a scrip for lunch, if you don't mind!"

Cameron's eyes filled with tears. "So brave," she said before hurrying out the door.

Chase glowered after her. Obviously, she was still pissed at him but hiding it under a façade of over-protectiveness. He had to give her props for creativity, though. Mind-fuckage Level IV. On the bright side, she was gone now, so maybe he could do something about getting some food. He pressed the nurse's call button and proceeded to charm the charge nurse into re-ordering his lunch; even better, the soft solids version instead of the clear liquid diet.

The thought of clear liquids reminded him of his next task. Catheters were necessary evils for the unconscious or otherwise immobilized patient, but he was fully awake now and had no intention of remaining chained (or tubed) to his bed any longer than necessary. If he were able to prove that he could sit up without assistance and maybe even stand, he could probably talk the nurse into removing his urinary catheter.

With that goal in mind, he sat up slowly and, moving his various tubes and lead wires out of the way, swung his legs to one side of the bed. Unfortunately, he'd underestimated the probability of a vaso-vagal reaction, and ended up pitching forward as the room swung dizzily around him.

There was the sound of a hard object clattering to the floor, and a pair of strong hands caught him, holding him firmly in place. The room was still spinning crazily before his eyes, so Chase grabbed hold of his savior's forearms, clinging to them as if to the motionless fulcrum at the center of a carnival ride. He panted, closing his eyes and trying to force back the nausea. Finally, the spinning feeling slowed and eventually came to a stop. He opened his eyes, ready to thank the nurse or orderly—and stopped, startled to see House's face twelve inches away from him.

"Trying to escape so soon? Don't you know there are laws against ducking out without paying your hotel bill?"

Chase's mouth worked for a moment without making any sound, as his brain kept flashing traumatic images of last night's dream before his eyes.

House grabbed his jaw none too gently and beamed a penlight down his throat. "Problems talking? Sore throat? Dryness? Swollen lymph nodes?"

"Ow, no!" complained Chase, prying House's fingers off his throat. "I was just surprised to see you. Give a bloke a moment before you start running a differential, 'kay?"

"Ah, the sound of Australian in the morning; it's almost like English if you listen carefully." House's eyes glinted at Chase. "A piece of friendly advice. Not sure where you were planning to go, but you happen to be connected to your bed by two separate appendages, one of which will be awfully embarrassing to lose. I'm just sayin."

"I know that," Chase replied testily. Truth be told, he was more relieved than annoyed by House's jabs and quips; it was reassuring to see that everything was normal, or at least as normal as things ever were around House. Which goes to show that morphine is a particularly tricky drug when it comes to freak-ass nightmares, and one that Chase intended to avoid in future. "I wanted to demonstrate that I could sit up and move on my own; that way, I could probably talk one of the nurses into removing my Foley cath."

"No worries, mate; I can do that for ya, reckon!" House said in a broad bush accent.

"Uh, no thanks, I'll just call—"

"Oh, stop being such a girl! It's nothing I haven't seen before." He smirked at Chase's shocked face, then adopted the petulant expression of a five-year-old. "I have a peenie, too, 'cept mine's bigger."

"You wish," Chase grumbled, but he accepted the towel from House anyway and stared off into space, trying not to think how absolutely weird this was, to have his boss lifting his hospital gown, and—"OW!"

"Girl," chided House, discarding the tubing and going to the sink to wash his hands. "Now let's get rid of the IV, and you'll be," he cleared his throat and started singing, "Borrrrrrrn Freeeeeeeee, as free as the wiiiiiiiind blows—"

"Shut it, House, there're sick people in here!"

"Always the intensivist." House dug in the bedside cabinet and threw Chase's clothes on the bed. "Hold the gauze while I pull out the needle—"

"Wait, what're you doing?"

House pointed at Chase's hand, which was gripped firmly in his. "Tak-ing-out-the-IV; would you like me to say it slower, or do you think you've caught on yet?"

"But I haven't been released from the ICU yet; in fact, I haven't even seen the intensivist in charge of my case. Is it Evans?"

"Nope, me."

"You're not an intensivist, and besides, we have a personal relationship that disqualifies you from being my doctor."

"At last you acknowledge your love for me!" declared House, placing his free hand over his heart.

"I meant that you're my boss—OW!" Chase glared as House pressed a square of gauze over the hole in his hand.

"Wow, aren't you the pissy one when you're in ICU. So do you want to argue all day, or would you rather get dressed and blow this pop stand?"

Chase bit his lip, ashamed to admit that he was sort of looking forward to his lunch tray. On the other hand, he could probably grab a snack in the cafeteria. "Fine; I'll meet you out by the ICU entrance."

House raised his eyebrows, giving Chase a quizzical look. "O-kaaay, now you're shy. It's difficult keeping up with your moods, Robbie, but I do my best to humor them. See you out there." He disappeared from the cubicle as quickly as he had appeared, leaving Chase staring thoughtfully after him.

"Robbie," Chase repeated, then shrugged and began dressing himself. House was a fine one to talk about being moody. And that crack about being shy—just because he didn't want his method of getting dressed being put up on the whiteboard and critiqued by his colleagues… Well, maybe that thought was a bit paranoid, but with House, any piece of personal information was likely to be offered up for public mockery.

Chase looked down at the tie in his hand and decided against knotting it around his neck. Tucking it into his pocket, he strolled out to the ICU entrance, somewhat surprised that none of the nurses at the station questioned his departure.

As expected, House was waiting for him just outside the ICU, leaning on his cane with a sardonic expression on his face. Chase walked up to him, halfway expecting to be dragged off immediately to the Diagnostics Conference Room to be started on some new patient's differential. After all, lying around unconscious in the ICU probably counted as slacking off in House's book.

They started down the corridor, but House suddenly stopped. "I almost forgot something," he exclaimed, clapping a hand to his forehead. "Welcome back, Wombat!" and he grabbed Chase, planting a kiss squarely on his mouth.

* * *

_To be continued  
_

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**Edit #2: 29-June-07**

After a period of inner contemplation and some valuable input from generous reviewers, I've come to a decision about the confusion that has been inflicted on some of the readers of this story by the twisty plotline.

I'm sorry about it, I really am. I value all of you as readers, but I _can't _bring myself to simplify things by adding headings of "_This is which Chase in which universe at which point in time_" before every chapter break. Those of you who are writers understand that there's a right way to tell a story and a wrong way, and the difference lies only in the mind of the author. For me, spelling out every little plot development would be the wrong way; it would be like reading the ending of a novel first, or opening presents before Christmas, or any other cliched way to describe jumping the gun and ruining the surprise.

I really appreciate all of the input you've been nice enough to give me, critical and otherwise, and I've spent a lot of time thinking it over--but in the end, the one person who has to be most happy with this story is me.

So, for those of you who might be still confused: I'm sorry and I appreciate you sticking with Postcards this far. I hope you'll hang on regardless, despite the absence of explanatory signposts. If anything, think of this plot like a roller coaster ride, where you might not know what's coming next, but that's half the fun. I will give one big hint, however: the entire premise of the plot is spelled out in the story summary on the main page.

Thank you for reading, thank you for listening, and thank you most of all for letting me know your opinions.

Aenisses 29-June-2007


	5. Breaking Out

Disclaimer: All rights to House MD belong to David Shore, Heel and Toe Films and Bad Hat Harry Productions in association with NBC Universal Television Studio. I do not make any monetary profit from this fanfiction.

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**Chapter Five. Breaking Out**

"Come down from there."

"No." Chase knew he was acting like a sulky preschooler, but he was damned if he was going to let himself in for any more trauma before he had a chance to process this last round of insanity.

"Come down, or you're going to force me to come up."

"Whatever." All right, still way down on the maturity scale, but right now, he was beyond caring.

A long sigh. "You realize that it's going to cause me a considerable amount of effort, not to mention pain, to climb up there. And for what? Where are you going to run to?"

Chase banged his head gently against the plywood wall. Where indeed? After that last…interaction (he wasn't going to even think the word _kiss_—ohfuckitall!), he'd fled to the central PPTH staircase, instinctively seeking out higher ground where House couldn't reach him. He'd barely made it around the first curve in the stairwell when the stairs came to an abrupt stop, blocked off by plywood and scaffolding.

The stairs just _stopped_, which meant they went nowhere, which made about as much sense as House trying to get it on with him when the man didn't even like him that much, which proved that either the entire world was crazy, or he, Robert Chase, had finally lost the last markers from his mental whiteboard, so why not just let himself completely _freak out_?

"You're hyperventilating, Robbie."

"Am not!" he gasped. "And stop calling me Robbie!"

"Wombat?"

"Don't even go there!"

"Then what am I supposed to call you?"

"Chase! The same thing you've called me for the last four years, the same way you call Cameron and Foreman—Cameron and Foreman!" Okay, somehow that didn't pack the dramatic punch he'd hoped for.

There was a moment of silence _(and damn it, why did the silence seem to convey hurt feelings so effectively?_), then, "I guess you're going to make me climb the stairs after all."

Cane-thunk-step, cane-thunk-step, a pained hesitation between each, _(Chase's nerves screaming with guilt the entire time_), until—Clatter, bang, THUMP!

Chase went flying down the steps, heart in his throat, cursing himself for his stubbornness—and nearly ran down House where he stood balanced with one hand against the wall.

"Lost my cane," House said simply.

Brushing past him, Chase retrieved the cane from the bottom of the staircase and held it up in one hand. "You're getting this back on one condition: that you tell the truth. Did you drop it on purpose?"

"Maybe." The hedging was pure House, but the expression (a wistful smile?) was so alien to his usual repertoire of smirks that Chase just stared at him, unable to move. "Um, can I have my cane back now?"

One part of Chase wanted to throw the cane at him, but the other part, still mesmerized by House's smile, moved up the steps and deposited the cane gently into the outstretched hand (firmly ignoring the brief brush of fingers against his own.) Retreating quickly back to the landing, he folded his arms across his chest and tried to assume a forbidding expression—no, wait, that seemed too dramatic—fine, then a resolute and slightly admonishing expression—okay, now that felt just plain stupid—oh bollocks, House had already made his painful way down the few steps and was standing right in front of him. Chase, suspecting that his expression held all the resolve of a particularly stupid rabbit in the headlights, searched for something to say.

House spoke first. "You're mad at me."

"No, I'm n—all right, I am. What are you playing at, House? Can't you give me at least a day to recover from ICU before trying to mindfuck me into a seizure?"

"It wasn't your mind I was trying to—oh fine, I'll stop." House peered curiously into Chase's face, and for some reason, Chase flushed and turned away. "You don't remember anything about our relationship, do you?"

He could almost feel that diagnostic stare boring into his back. "What relationship? The 'I make diagnostic suggestions and you call me an idiot' relationship? The 'You fake brain cancer, then yell at me for trying to find a way to cure you' relationship? Or maybe the 'You can't get enough of calling me sneaky bastard or ass-kisser or whatever the hell insult you want' relationship!"

Chase clapped a hand over his mouth and whirled around, his eyes wide with horror. What the hell was wrong with him? Since when did he openly spill his grievances with House (with _anyone_), let alone in such a snarky, self-pitying tone? Maybe he could talk Foreman into running a quick neurological exam on him. In the meantime, however, his worst nightmare was approaching again, wearing the self-satisfied smirk he got every time he figured out a piece of some diagnostic puzzle.

"You _don't_ remember," House said, smug satisfaction permeating every word. "Short-term memory loss would explain your strange behavior. Not uncommon following trauma to—"

"_My _strange behavior? I'm not the one trying to map out your tonsils with my tongue!"

"That's what I meant. Normally, you'd be looking for a storage closet or empty exam room to shove me into, and we'd be—"

"Just stop it already." Chase gripped his hair in frustration. "You win, all right? I'm freaked out, fucked up, and completely gobsmacked, so just go off and brag to Wilson how you ran mental circles around a guy who got out of a coma an hour ago."

"You think I'm trying to hurt you."

Chase made a sound of contempt. "No, I don't think you'd waste that much effort on me. I think you're just having a bit of fun at my expense. Same as usual."

House swiftly reached out and grasped Chase by the chin. "I'm not lying to you, Ro—Chase. We have a relationship. I care about you."

Maybe it was those blue eyes so close, open and real, for once with no sarcastic amusement in their depths. Maybe it was the bitter irony of hearing those word uttered so sincerely—_I care about you_—all the while knowing they were a twisted joke, a way to suck him in only to mock him mercilessly later. Suddenly, he felt a lump in his throat and realized that he was perilously close to crying, as close as he'd been that day of the board hearing, when House admitted that he'd known Chase's father was dying but couldn't be arsed to tell him.

He forced back the emotion in his usual way, focusing his efforts on choosing which of the reasonable arguments tangled up in his mind was most likely to get House to stop with his stupid game: _But I'm not gay! For that matter, you're not gay; what about Stacy? I think I may be in love with Cameron. I _know_ I'm not in love with you. Hell, you act like you can barely tolerate me! _

Chase opened his mouth. "You hit me. In the face. And you never said Sorry." _Where the fuck did that come from?_

House immediately released him, pulling back his hand as if it'd been burned. He shifted his gaze away (embarrassed? _ashamed?_), then met Chase's eyes again, his own gaze cloudy, the lines deepening between his brows and around his mouth, aging him ten years in the space of a moment. "Have you ever…" he paused, appearing to have trouble finding the words, "have you ever wronged another person so completely that the thought of asking for forgiveness seems like a…another insult? Because you know you don't deserve to be forgiven, and asking for it seems to imply that you think you do."

Chase shook his head. "But saying 'Sorry' tells the person that you at least acknowledge—" House's words finally penetrated his brain, and he remembered a time when he'd felt exactly like that. _Oh god, Vogler._ He fell silent, feeling the rush of shame heat his face. _Remove the plank from thine own eye_…

"All right." House's voice was low and serious. "For what it's worth at this late date, I'm sorry. I was wrong to hit you, and…you were right about the diagnosis." He paused, his voice suddenly taking on a husky, hesitant tone. "You were right."

Chase struggled to form words around the tightness in his throat. "For what it's worth—and I'm even later than you—I'm sorry, too. For Vogler…for what I did…I'm sorry." _Clumsy!_

Yet all the same, he felt as if a weight had been lifted from him, some low, simmering reserve of anger and guilt erased from his soul. _Absolution_, they called it in the Church, and although he didn't believe in dogma, he couldn't deny the feeling of lightness, of freedom from burdens held too long. He lifted his chin and smiled at House. Maybe now, they could finally get past all this shit and start relating to each other on a normal basis.

House grinned back at him. "So does this mean it's time for make-up sex?"

Chase closed his eyes, choosing his words carefully. "If I take your cane and beat you over the head with it, then say I'm sorry, will you forgive me?"

"I take it that's a 'no' to sex for the time being."

"You can take it as a 'no' for all eternity!"

"Short term memory loss," said House, unfazed. "You'll come around." He opened his eyes wide, jabbing Chase in the side with his elbow. "_Come_ around, get it?"

Chase tried for an aggravated eye roll but ended up letting out a snort of amusement. Was it so wrong that he found House's childish mugging funny? On the other hand, his apparent lack of offense just earned him an arm draped companionably across his shoulders. He glanced at the nurses and doctors passing by, but no one seemed to find House's behavior unusual or outlandish.

Speaking of unusual… "Can I ask you a question?"

House had pulled away and was now limping swiftly towards the elevators, leaving Chase scrambling to catch up. "No problem. It's about yea long, not too thin, not too thick, and I'm mostly a tender lover, although we can play rough at times, in which case the safe word is 'Cameron.'" He turned around to where Chase was standing with his eyes screwed up in pain. "Oh, wait, that wasn't your question?"

"No," Chase gritted out. "I wanted to know why the staircase goes nowhere."

"Construction on the next floor up, the new skybridge to the Research Building. See, I keep telling you—you have memory loss issues. Guess we should be glad it's no worse, though. In celebration of your return to the land of the living, how about I buy you lunch?"

Chase's stomach leapt up in happiness. "You mean, how about you page Wilson, and he buys us both lunch."

"Same difference." House hit the elevator call button. "But no mentioning this to anyone else in the office; after all, Wilson's not made of money."

"I'm sure he appreciates your thoughtfulness," Chase said and followed House into the elevator, hoping for the umpteenth time that things were finally getting back to normal.

* * *

Cameron flipped through the pages of a magazine, trying to find something to occupy her mind, steering it away from the scene that had struck her between the eyes early this morning. No use; the pages kept turning past unread as her mind replayed the image over and over again: House sprawled asleep in the chair next to Chase's bed, the intensivist's hand clutched loosely in his own. 

It was sweet. It was gooey. It was mushy. It was as if aliens had come down and replaced House's brain with sweet, gooey mush.

It was terrifying.

So terrifying that she'd walked straight back out again, then turned around, banging open the door of the ICU and calling out a loud greeting to the night nurse still on duty. The stocky blond woman (Angelina?) frowned at her, but the noise had done the trick: House had come limping out of Chase's cubicle, rumpled, scowling fiercely, and declaring that he was going home, so just shut up already—and by the way, since she was so chipper in the morning, she could cover his clinic hours for the afternoon as well.

Which goes to show that it really was _not_ a good idea to come in to work two hours early, and that no good, conscientious, responsible deed goes unpunished.

Cameron sighed and tossed the magazine aside, looking up to meet a bright blue-green gaze. "Hey," she said, her heart giving a little rattle-thump of surprise… and pleasure. _One never really appreciates something until it's nearly taken away, _she reflected as Chase gave her one of his glowing smiles in return. It wasn't that she had feelings for him—_definitely_ not—but she wasn't fool enough to ignore what a black day this had almost turned out to be.

Chase was alive. That was what counted.

"How are you feeling?" she asked softly.

"Fine. Where's Greg?"

"Who?"

"Greg. House. Our boss, remember?"

"Oh." Cameron blinked (_Greg?)_, trying to get her thoughts back on track. "Um, he went home." She started talking faster at Chase's crestfallen expression. "He was up here all night, and he had to get some sleep. He looked exhausted." Why did she keep stammering out excuses for House's absence?

Chase looked guilty. "I know. I didn't mean to worry him."

"I…uh, you worried me, too," Cameron offered lamely.

"Really?" The glow was back.

"You worried all of us," she said hurriedly, not liking the way he looked at her so warmly, as if they had the kind of relationship that led to complications and…more complications.

However, he didn't seem to notice her backpedaling, as his gaze traveled from the bedside table on his left, down across his chest, back up to the IV on his right, then back to her face. "Allison, where's my doll?"

"Your doll?" she repeated stupidly, as alarms started shrieking in her head. Why was he talking like a little kid?_ Brain damage, brain damage, oh god, don't let it be brain damage! _

"Yeah," Chase said patiently. "You always get me a wombat doll when I end up in hospital."

"A what? When? Always?" Cameron forced herself to stop stammering. "Have you seen a doctor yet, Chase?"

"Yeah, Dr. Patel came in last night and woke me up so that he could run a neurological evaluation. Weird, I thought, but at least he seemed happy enough and finally left. Greg was still here then," Chase said wistfully.

"What did Dr. Patel say?"

"That everything was normal, and I should just rest up for a while." Chase frowned at Cameron's skeptical expression. "Hey, if you don't believe me, you can go look at my chart at the nurses' station."

"Of course, I believe you," Cameron said with as much sincerity as she could muster. _Make sure to check his chart before you leave_, she noted to herself.

Chase distracted her by swinging his legs over to the side of the bed and sitting up. "Could you give me some gauze?" he asked, pulling off the tape that held the IV needle fixed in the back of his hand.

"What are you doing?" Cameron darted forward as he pulled out the long needle, blood seeping from the puncture wound. "You're not supposed to--!"

"Now for the catheter. I'm not sure I can do this one on my own." Chase gave her another one of his dazzling smiles.

"Oh, no. No way. Chase, you haven't been released from the ICU yet; you can't just start pulling out all of your lines!"

"But Dr. Patel said I'm all right."

"He's the neurologist, not the intensivist on your case. I don't think you've even seen an intensivist yet."

"Yes, I have." Chase widened his eyes innocently. "Myself. I'm an intensivist, remember? And I think," he tilted his head and tapped his chest playfully, "that I'm just fine."

"Chase—"

"Please, Allison." Chase's face had that soft, innocent look that never failed to melt her heart, the same look he'd given her along with the "Not Stolen" flowers. He shifted his hips slightly. "The catheter's sort of uncomfortable. I know that I'm asking a lot of you, but it's not like you haven't seen…well, I was hoping you would help me out."

Cameron let out a long breath. "Fine. But don't come crying to me if they decide to shove it back in; this was your idea, keep that in mind."

The procedure took almost no time, and she focused on washing her hands, wondering how he'd managed to manipulate her into going against her better judgment. He was getting almost as good at manipulating her as House—and that thought made her temper rise. "Listen, Chase, I may have helped you with the catheter but don't think that—" She turned around and stopped, startled to see him half-dressed already. "What do you think you're doing?"

Chase winced as he detached the sticky electrode patches from his chest, along with a few unfortunate chest hairs. "Getting back to work."

"You're crazy! You've just suffered a major heart attack, you came out of a coma only hours ago, you haven't even seen a cardiologist or an intensivist, and you think that you're ready to simply walk out of here?"

"Yep," he replied, pulling on his shirt and frowning at the hanging threads where buttons were once fastened. "What happened to my shirt?"

Cameron shook her head, trying to keep up with Chase's rapid subject changes. "I don't know—oh, that's right. House ripped it open when—"

Chase laughed. "Yeah, okay, I get it. Man gets a bit frisky sometimes, doesn't he? Not much patience in 'im." He met Cameron's wide, startled eyes. "What?"

"He was trying to save your life! You'd coded in the MRI room!"

"Oh, is that what happened? Never mind then."

"Never mind what? What were _you_ talking about?"

"Frankly, I find it amazing that he's talking at all." Nurse Angelina moved into the cubicle. "According to the monitors on my station, he's coded, flatlined, dead, deceased, and gone." She quirked an eyebrow at the patient, who smiled winningly back. "Now either that's the prettiest zombie that's ever failed to draw breath, or someone's been up to mischief with his leads." She lifted the disconnected wires and shook them at Chase. "Do you know what happens to naughty young doctors who do bad things to their medical equipment?"

"Spankings?" Chase asked hopefully.

Cameron choked, and Angelina dropped the wires.

The nurse was the first to recover, drawing a deep breath and fanning her brow dramatically. "Listen, my boy, you keep saying things like that, and you're going to make me forget my age, profession, religion, marital status, and morals, and the two of us are going to have a long discussion about naughtiness in the ICU supply closet." She flashed a grin at Cameron. "How do you manage to resist him?"

"Heaven only knows," Cameron replied, glaring at Chase until he obediently closed his mouth. She didn't need him volunteering any information about their own past escapades in supply closets.

"All the same," Angelina said mildly, all traces of flirtation gone, replaced by an undercurrent of steel, "you seem to be suffering from delusions, Dr. Chase—the main delusion being that I'm going to let you walk out of here."

Chase didn't lose his smile; if anything, it grew more luminous. "Nurse Angelina, you've taken such good care of me, I'm afraid I might develop a dependency on you. I have to leave before I'm addicted." He laid on the accent and charm so thick that even Cameron felt a shiver go down her spine.

"You're good," Angelina said admiringly. "But I'm better. And meaner. So it's back to bed with you, and you can flatter me all you like while I'm reattaching the electrodes. However, if you're a good boy, I'll let the catheter slide."

Chase looked nonplussed for a moment, as if he'd expected to get his way with no resistance, but quickly recovered and gave Angelina a little nod of respect. "All right. I don't want to get you in trouble; you've been too good to me. So I'll just sign myself out AMA."

"Against Medical Advice. Do you understand the meaning of that term, Dr. Chase?"

"As a matter of fact, I do. The funny thing is, there aren't any doctors around here to advise me against leaving."

"Ahem," said Cameron, waving her hand.

_Traitor,_ he mouthed at her without any malice, then raised his voice. "Seriously, Angelina, who's the cardiologist on my case? Gandhi? Weiss?"

"Weiss," the nurse admitted grudgingly.

"All right, you know he won't even do rounds till almost eight tonight. Then he'll look at me for two minutes, order a series of tests that can't be done until tomorrow, and go on his merry way, condemning me to another forty-eight hours in the ICU before he'll even see me again. I'd much rather have House schedule my diagnostic tests; that way, they'll probably all be done by the end of today, and maybe I can sleep in my own bed." The glowing smile made a reappearance. "What if I promise not to leave the hospital until all test results are in, and to stay in the company of the best doctors in Diagnostics until they say I'm good to go?"

Cameron blinked, surprised by Chase's smoothness with the nurse. Most of the time, his attempts at flirtation were slightly clumsy, revealing a geekiness not usually seen in such a good-looking man. Right now, however, there was no trace of any awkwardness at all; he was so polished that Cameron practically expected him to purr, "My name is Chase…Robert Chase," in a pseudo-British accent.

Angelina sighed deeply. "My susceptibility to a pretty face is going to be the death of me. Also, you know damn well that I can't keep you here if you sign out AMA. But understand this," she scowled as she shook a finger at him, "if you end up in my ICU again due to your own stupidity, those spankings won't be merely a threat."

"I'll remember." He leaned over and gave her a kiss on the cheek. "You'll probably see me again soon, because I'll start missing you so badly, I'll have to drop by for a visit. I'll bring cookies next time."

"I'm not that big of a sucker to believe any of that hooey," she snorted but allowed him to follow her to the nurses' station, where he signed about ten different forms to secure his release. Hands on hips, Angelina watched him and Cameron walk to the exit of the ICU.

"Oatmeal-raisin!" she shouted just before they disappeared down the corridor.

* * *

_To be continued_

* * *

Sorry for the "double-wide" chapter this time, but I wanted to get both Chases up and moving through the hospitals, and hopefully, get the plot moving a bit faster as well. Thank you for reading. 

Aenisses 5-July-2007


	6. A Wonderful, Awful Idea

Disclaimer: All rights to House MD belong to David Shore, Heel and Toe Films and Bad Hat Harry Productions in association with NBC Universal Television Studio. I do not make any monetary profit from this fanfiction.

* * *

**Chapter Six. A Wonderful, Awful Idea**

"Would you just stop?"

The request came across with a lot more irritation than she'd intended, and she immediately felt ashamed—which went on to add to her irritation, which then increased her shame and so on until she was ready to _scream!_

"Stop what?" Chase sounded honestly confused.

"Looking at me like that. Like…we have a relationship or something." She ground her teeth at his still-confused look. "Chase, you're _glowing_ at me."

"Why shouldn't I glow? I enjoy looking at you. You're beautiful."

"I told you to stop it!" she snapped, furious with him because he was doing it again, pushing his way into her life and her psyche, and she didn't want that, she didn't want him, she didn't want to feel _anything_ for him! "It's not Tuesday, so just shut up!"

He flinched so hard that he dropped his spoon into his cereal, his eyes turning to her—and she caught her breath, because there was so much raw pain in his gaze, as if she'd taken a knife and stabbed him clean through the heart.

Looking away again, he blinked hard and started toying absently with the orange beside his dish. "I'm sorry," he whispered—

--and Cameron thought she'd never felt lower in her life, not even when she'd had to tell those girls that their baby had died. Because she'd empathized with their pain, but she hadn't been the actual cause of it…unlike now, when she couldn't seem to stop berating Chase for the unforgivable crime of falling in love with her.

_Talk about kicking a man when he's down_, she told herself, her face flooding with color as she reached across the table and grasped his hand. "I'm sorry for being such a bitch. I didn't mean to yell at you." She tugged at his hand until he finally looked up.

His eyes were suspiciously shiny, but he gave her a half-smile. "No worries. You can't help how you feel, and I…" he trailed off.

Cameron flushed again, but this time, it was more than her personal shame—she was embarrassed for him. He'd never been this openly emotional, this unguarded (this _naked_) in front of her. Seeing him without his clothes was one thing, but this…this was like taking a sneak peek into his soul.

It felt like a violation—and with a sudden jolt, she realized that violation was exactly the right term. Because _this_ wasn't Chase, at least, not as he normally was; if anything, Chase was maddeningly elusive, private to the point of paranoia, content to let people form mistaken impressions of him rather than reveal the tiniest personal detail (_just as he'd been content to let her think of him as a self-serving bastard, carefully hiding his better qualities under a veneer of shallowness._)

What she was seeing at this moment was him stripped down to his essential being, and she knew this strange openness had to be due to his injury. She felt as if she were peeking in on him in the privacy of his own home, spying on him in his emotional nakedness—and he deserved better than that from her.

Deliberately changing the subject to steer away from the shoals of their emotional problems, she tapped a fingertip on the table. "You're not eating," she scolded gently. "I realize the food is from the hospital cafeteria, but even they couldn't screw up dry cereal that badly."

"Not very hungry," he said, looking a little uncomfortable as he retrieved the spoon and placed it beside his bowl.

"Come on, Chase, your clothes are hanging off you." She shook her head in disbelief. "If I didn't see it for myself, I wouldn't have believed it—how could you possibly lose ten to fifteen pounds in the last two days? Even with the trauma, it doesn't seem possible—"

"Could I ask a favor?" He looked up at her through his fringe, his expression appealing and almost a little scared. "Two favors, actually. Could you not remark on my eating habits or weight, and…would you mind calling me by my name?"

"But I already do…oh. You mean, Robert?"

"Yeah." The glowing smile was back.

Cameron blinked at his instantaneous mood change, its suddenness strengthening her conviction that Chase—_Robert_—was definitely in an altered mental state. She felt a sudden need to turn him over to Foreman and get an expert's opinion on his neurological status. "Here, I'll make you a deal. If you at least eat the orange, I'll take you back to the office and we'll catch up with Foreman."

"We were going to do that anyway."

"Eat the orange!" she ordered in a mock severe tone. To her surprise, he quickly picked up the knife and peeled the orange in one smooth rotation, handing her the unbroken peel in a long, curving strip. "It's good luck," he explained briefly, then obediently ate the segments one after the other.

Too obediently. Something about his quick capitulation to her joking command made her uneasy. Once again, the only explanation her mind provided was that he wasn't acting like himself. Shortly afterwards, she finally pushed through the glass doors of Diagnostics with an undeniable sense of relief, Chase trailing further behind her.

Foreman, already seated at the conference table and nursing a cup of coffee, looked up at her entry into the room. "I'd been wondering where you were, Cameron; it's nearly ten AM, and I had to make the coff—Hey!" He stood up, setting his cup down as he stared at Chase. "What the hell are you doing out of ICU?"

"He signed himself out. I _really_ need to talk to you alone, Fore—"

Chase pushed past her and practically flung himself into Foreman's arms. "Foreman! I missed you!"

Foreman was literally rocked back on his heels, his face registering a comical look of shock and distaste as both arms were suddenly full of blond Australian. Cameron would've laughed at the loss of his carefully cultivated cool, except for her own panic at Chase's behavior. He was definitely exhibiting symptoms of personality dysfunction.

"Hey, man," Foreman awkwardly patted Chase on the back, "'s cool. I know something about these near-death experiences, but look, you gotta let go now. Chase? Man?"

Cameron signaled frantically behind Chase's back, and Foreman shot her a "No duh!" look while trying to pry Chase's fingers from his shoulders. "Listen, man, it's all right to be upset. Just let go, and then we can—"

Suddenly, Chase pushed violently off him, shoving hard at Foreman's shoulder and knocking him away. "Let go, right?" he yelled with manic glee.

Foreman caught his balance by grabbing at the chair. "What the hell's wrong with you? What are you playing at?"

Cameron waved her arms frantically, but Foreman never got the chance to see her because Chase was up in his face, slapping him with light sissy slaps as if he were a playground bully, the manic grin widening with every blow. "Playing is exactly what you want, don't you, Eric? You want to play me, but you're not getting me without a fight."

Foreman cursed and knocked down Chase's hands with a sweeping blow. "Get the fuck out of my face, before I bust your sorry white ass."

"You're always going on about my white ass." Chase didn't have Foreman's impressive musculature, but what he lacked in brute force, he made up in speed, dancing around Foreman and getting in a few slaps to the back of his shaven head. "You want this ass, you're gonna have to work for it."

Foreman grabbed Chase by both shoulders and spun him around.

"Foreman!" shouted Cameron, shocked at how quickly the situation had deteriorated. "Chase! Stop it! _Robert_, listen to me!" The two figures slammed into the table beside her, making her wince at the sound of cracking wood. She skittered towards the door, praying that security would pass by, but in Fate's usual maddening way, the corridor was completely empty for once. Maybe House—no, he'd gone home for the morning. Could Wilson be in yet?

"I don't have to _work_ to beat down your rich boy pansy-ass," Foreman grunted, finally pinning Chase and his flying fists against the table edge. "I can…take you…with one hand—"

"Like you did last week?" Chase panted happily, unperturbed by his position bent back across the table. He wriggled cheerfully under Foreman's furious grasp. "You can't resist me! Always…thinking about me. Fantasizing about me. Wanting to run…your dark hands up my white thighs…"

"Shut up!" screamed Foreman, ignoring Cameron as she pulled hard but ineffectively at his shoulder. "Don't get me mixed up in your perverted…privileged…rich kid…perversions!"

"Like you don't love walking on the other side?" Chase was grinning in a feral way. "Always trying to act so straight, Eric…unless you're tearing my clothes off in the men's— "

Cameron saw darkness flood through Foreman's eyes and knew, even before he pulled back his fist, that had House, Wilson, and an entire SWAT team miraculously appeared in the doorway at that moment, they still would've been too late to prevent Chase from going down.

* * *

Standing moodily in the PPTH lobby, House impatiently jabbed his cane at the elevator button. Going home for a much needed nap had been a fucked up waste of time. Couldn't find a comfortable position, couldn't stop his leg from aching, (couldn't stop puzzling over his fellow's freaky delusion that they were romantically involved), couldn't get the home redecorators next door to stop with the goddamn hammering, no matter how many times he scored their door with his own furious hammering of his cane— 

Shit. This day was already shot to hell, and it'd barely even started. Wilson better have packed a good lunch, if he knew what was good for him.

The elevator door pinged open, and a happily pregnant couple tried to slip past House to get on, but his cane shot out and blocked the way. "Sorry, this one's taken."

"But my wife is late for her appointment with—"

"Your wife will put this car over the safe weight limit. Bye." The doors closed on the couple's outraged expressions, and House felt a small thrill of satisfaction at spreading his bad mood to the deserving masses. Or deserving asses; both terms were equally accurate.

Another opportunity for spreading the love came into sight: the tightly closed blinds across the glass walls of Diagnostics, giving the appearance that the department was closed for business. If his remaining two fellows thought that Chase's sojourn in the ICU entitled them to Time Fucking Off, they were about to learn differently: a hard, fast lesson involving the business end of his cane and double clinic hours. No one was allowed to fuck off in Diagnostics…except for him, of course.

Lip already curled in a vindictive sneer, he pushed open the door—and stopped, shocked to see all three fellows present in the room.

He hated being put off his stride.

"You!" he barked at Cameron to cover his confusion. "What's Doofus doing out of his playpen?" He limped closer, staring at Chase where he sat in a chair with his head tilted back and Cameron pressing a wad of tissues to his nose. "Does he have a nosebleed? Because, you know, that might be a tad worrisome in someone who's supposed to be in the _fucking ICU!"_

Cameron merely shot him an irritated look. "Chase is fine."

It was really getting annoying, the way that he couldn't seem to intimidate any of his fellows anymore. Well, there was always his old stand-by. He jabbed his cane into Chase's shoulder. "So talk. How did you manage to bust out of the Big House, and how does blood dripping down your face translate into you being fine?"

"I side out A-Ebb-A. By doze is fide. I…rad idto th' door."

"Hm, interesting language there; an almost unintelligible mix between Australian and Primal Sinus. Too bad that I can tell when you're talking bullshit regardless of what accent you couch it in." House limped around the table, sending a curious glance at Foreman, who sat silent and fuming with his hands folded before him. "Equally interesting is the fact that you ran into the door with enough force to bounce off the frame and land on the table, making a few minor cracks in its surface, along with," he seized Foreman's hand, palm side down, "inconsiderately scraping Foreman's knuckles with your teeth on the way down."

Foreman snarled and snatched his hand away.

"Thad's zakly what happibb!" Chase said cheerfully, sending House a wide-eyed innocent look. "Greg, I swear you're th' best diag—"

"Oh, put a sock in it!" said House, at the same instant that Foreman spat, "I don't need you covering for me, pansy-ass!"

"So I was right." House sat down across from Foreman, who stared stonily past him. "How about we do a differential but add in the 'WWAND' angle—What Would A Neurologist Do? Patient presents with idiopathic cessation of heartbeat, several minutes of reduced oxygen perfusion to the brain, resulting in coma, from which he miraculously recovers with a few," he glanced warily at Chase, "minor glitches. WWAND, anybody?" His voice hardened, revealing shades of genuine anger. "Punch him in the head, right, Foreman?"

Foreman remained silent, but he shot a quick look at Chase, who waved a few fingers shyly at him in acknowledgment. The neurologist's expression hardened again, and he stared out the window.

"Look," said Cameron, sick of the tension in the room, "it was wrong of Foreman to hit Chase—er, _Robert_, but in his defense, he was somewhat provoked. They exchanged, um, words."

"Words." House narrowed his eyes at Foreman. "Always a good reason to put the smackdown on an invalid. Saves time that otherwise would've been wasted on those pesky neurological tests. Who needs 'em when you've got a wicked right hook?" He knew that he was goading Foreman beyond reason, but he needed to vent his rage, and Foreman made a good target. (_He wasn't even going to try to figure out exactly _why_ he felt so pissed off—better chalk it up to this increasingly shit-packed day.)_

Foreman still refused to engage with him, although House could detect a definite darkening under his skin. Just as he was winding up for another shot across the bow, Chase piped up.

"He diddit bead to hurd be. It was jus' foreblay."

Foreman smacked both hands on the table and rose violently out of his chair. "I swear to _God_, Chase!"

House's cane slammed across the table with a sound like a gunshot. The three fellows froze in place.

"I get it now," he said in a deceptively soft tone. "Robert, I'm shocked at you. Just last night, you declared your undying love for me," he glanced over at Foreman, whose mouth dropped open in surprise, "and you're already throwing me over for a younger, hotter man. I'm not sure I'll ever recover."

"Bud I still love you, Greg!" Chase frantically pulled the bloodied tissues away from his nose. "This was just—"

"An aberration? Cameron, did Chase come onto you as well?"

Cameron's eyes darted back and forth between the men before creasing in thought. "He wasn't as crude about it as he was with Foreman, but I'd have to say yes, he was definitely trying. It struck me as a little weird at the time."

"Anyone else he come into contact with?"

"Nooo—oh wait, he did say something about, uh, spankings to the ICU nurse."

House scratched his stubble. "Yeah, Angelina seems like a natural choice for a dominatrix—what?" he asked, irritated by Cameron's and Foreman's wide eyes. "Isn't it natural to have perverted fantasies about middle-aged women in nurses' uniforms?"

Foreman shook his head. "It's not that. I'm more surprised that you would bother to remember a nurse's name."

House crossed over to start writing on the whiteboard. "So ever since he came out of his coma, our Dr. Chase has been coming onto anything that possesses secondary sexual characteristics, regardless of gender, advanced age, or normal standards of attractiveness—you haven't propositioned any lamps or other inanimate objects, have you, Robbie?"

"No!" protested Robert.

"Note the sincere disgust in his voice; it's good to to know that he has _some_ standards. However," House pulled a mock-sad face, "it seems you're not such a special snowflake to him after all, Eric."

Foreman leaned back in his chair and blew out a breath. "That's a relief!"

"Methinks the neurologist doth protest too much. But let's move along. This behavior seems like a psycho-sexual aberration, perhaps of—come on, give it to me—_Ding!_ That's right, neurological origin! But whatever shall we do?" House sang in a dramatic falsetto. "What brave hero shall help us down the path to enlightenment?"

"Enough already, House. I'll see about scheduling an MRI at Princeton General for Chase."

"Brilliant deduction, Foreman! But are you sure you want to mess with that new-fangled techno-doohickey? I could always lend you my cane, and you could beat the diagnosis out of him."

Foreman just shot him a disgusted glare as he left the room.

"Cameron, follow him and make sure that he doesn't piss off the PrinceGen radiology department; he seems a bit tetchy for some reason. In the meantime, I'll have a word here with Chase. Page me when you have the MRI scheduled, and I'll make sure he gets there."

Cameron raised her eyebrows but decided to keep quiet about House's sudden solicitude regarding Chase. Tempers had been running high in the department ever since Chase's injury, and she'd rather not offer up her own neck to House's chopping block.

Chase jumped up to open the door for Cameron, then went back and stood before House with his head hanging down. "I guess this is it, then," he said miserably. "I guess you're going to break up with me now, because I tried to betray you with Foreman. And Cameron. And Angelina."

"Oh, for fuck's sake!" exploded House. "Do we really have to go through this shit again? I'm not going to spend every hour of every day dealing with your fears of breaking up with me! Not to mention, whatever la-la-land your brain may be in at the moment, it doesn't seem inclined to pine away for any one person."

Chase sank down to his knees before House, his hands clasped loosely before him and his hair hiding his eyes. "Please forgive me," he whispered. "I couldn't bear it if you didn't forgive me, Greg."

"Look, just settle down, Chase—er, Robert." House felt distinctly uncomfortable with Chase bowed submissively before him. Regardless of the organic reason for his fellow's strange behavior, House knew that there were most likely some real psychological issues behind this acting-out. Despite his outward glee in torturing Chase on a constant basis, he hadn't really wanted to break the boy's spirit. He hadn't _really_ intended to—wait a minute here!

"Hey! Get your hands off my zipper!" House wrestled with Chase, trying to push his shoulders back (feeling his hot breath through his jeans—no, _not _going there!), until he began to seriously consider, or at least empathize with, Foreman's thrown punch. Finally, in desperation, he grabbed a handful of blond hair and forced Chase away from him.

"Don't you ever try that again!" he snarled—then stopped, gobsmacked by the tears running openly down his fellow's face.

He'd never actually ever seen Chase cry before...well, not counting the hug during the brain cancer fiasco, and that time, he didn't really see Chase's face.

"It's over!" Robert sobbed heartbrokenly. "You don't want…me…" He hiccuped from the force of his sobs. "You don't want—"

"Shut up, goddamnit!" House hissed, looking anxiously towards the door, worried that some well-meaning passerby (aka nosy pain-in-the-ass) was going to pop their head in the room and ask whose puppy just got run over.

"I don't want to talk to you!" sobbed Robert, "I need—I need my Wilson! He'll know what to do!"

"_Your_ Wilson?" blurted out House in shock.

And then he got an idea. An awful idea. House got a wonderful, _awful_ idea.

* * *

Wilson signed off on the last patient chart of the morning, looking forward to the brief break in his appointments. Maybe he'd get out of his office and grab some coffee…maybe even look in on House.

He'd seen little of House ever since word had come of the near-loss of Chase during the freak MRI accident; mostly just a glimpse of a figure limping rapidly down the corridors. Taking House's locked office door as the request for privacy that he expected, Wilson had merely sent a brief note to him on his Runescape account, letting House know that he was available for a drink. He didn't really expect a reply for the next twenty-four hours; he knew that his friend was probably in an emotional state somewhere between rage and frantic anxiety, and about as likely to "share his feelings" as to volunteer for two root canals and a gay bikini wax. Having served as House's whipping boy during part of Foreman's brush with death, Wilson knew better than to interpose himself between House and whatever semi-destructive thing he chose to do to cope with his fear for someone he cared about.

But Wilson hadn't felt the need to avoid Chase himself, so he'd looked in on the young intensivist early last evening, glad to see his vitals stabilized but concerned that he was still in a coma. This morning, he'd barely gotten through the front doors of PPTH when he'd been informed by the lightning-fast hospital grapevine that Chase had not only woken from his coma but also checked himself out of the ICU (_very Housian_, thought Wilson.)

So it was a fair bet to guess that House might be in a better mood today, maybe downgrading from actively homicidal to just the usual sociopathic tendencies.

At that moment, a knock sounded at his office door. "Come in," Wilson called out politely—and House's head appeared around the door.

"House! You knocked!" Wilson got up from behind his desk. "Are you ill? Or just high and hungover?"

"Tch!" House frowned reprovingly at him. "I'm here on Serious Bizness, Jimmy; show a little professionalism."

"You are my shining example of that," agreed Wilson, crossing his arms over his chest. "So what can I do for you?"

"Not for me; Doctor Chase requests a consult."

Wilson frowned. "You can't possibly have him working on a case already. Come on, House, chisel your heart out of the stratified rock you left it in, and let the kid catch a break."

House remained with just his head peeking into the office, the rest of his body hidden around the corner of the door. "Not my fault this time; this is a personal request from Chase. So are you gonna talk to him or what?"

During the past few months, Wilson had overcome his resentment of Chase as Vogler's one time informant, and now actively enjoyed his company. Chase had proven to be quick-witted and invaluable to Wilson as a savvy diagnostician during House's absence, and the least Wilson could do for him was to set aside some personal time for a consult.

So he shunted aside sad, lingering thoughts of rich French Roast coffee and a leisurely perusal of the beaches in the latest issue of Conde Nast. "My next patient appointment isn't for at least a half-hour, so yeah, send him in."

House suddenly disappeared from the doorway. Wilson had time for only a brief, blurred impression of golden motion before he was hit hard by something blond and sobbing. Even as his mind whirled in confusion, he heard a click and wondered why House was locking his door from the outside.

* * *

* * *

The quotation, "A wonderful, awful idea" originated from "How the Grinch Stole Christmas" by Dr. Seuss (Theodore Geisel), 1957.

Thank you for reading.

Aenisses 13-July-2007

**ETA: 13-July-2007 **(late night) To anyone who might be "a little bugged" by this affectionate fanfic parody: I'm truly regretful about hurting your feelings, since I seem to have touched upon a sore spot with you. You're right that it would be arrogant of me to assume that "my" version of Chase is the One True Chase! My actual intention is to send up_ all_ fanfic Chases, including my own (there's plenty of material to mock in my own stories, and mock it I will, although most of that happens in later chapters of this story).

Where you are mistaken is your leap of reasoning that since I enjoy poking fun at Fanfic Chase, I have nothing but contempt for other Chase writers. On the contrary—many of the stories I've been smiling at have been written by some of the most talented authors in all of House fandom. They have not only provided me with hours of rapt reading pleasure, but also inspired me to pen this affectionate homage to the various fanfic incarnations of Robert Chase and Friends.

As "Postcards" develops, we'll get to see some of Fanfic Chase's strengths in comparison to his more tightly-wound counterpart. But you see, this can only occur at the pace of my own dramatic arc. If that attitude seems condescending to you, then again I apologize, but if you are a writer (and you seem articulate enough to be a writer), I'm sure you understand. Only the story dictates its own pace—no other force.

"Postcards" is just a parody, a way of having some summer fun as we wait for Season 4 to begin. My fondest hope is that maybe you can relax, recognize something that tickles your funny bone, and have an enjoyable laugh. In any case, I truly appreciate your input and your generosity in leaving a review. Have a great summer!


	7. Just Left of Reality

Disclaimer: All rights to House MD belong to David Shore, Heel and Toe Films and Bad Hat Harry Productions in association with NBC Universal Television Studio. I do not make any monetary profit from this fanfiction.

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* * *

* * *

**Chapter Seven. Just Left of Reality**

_Tap. Tap, tap, tap._

House frowned at his Nintendo DS, stylus poised above the lower screen, feet propped comfortably on his desk. He'd have to be quick if he wanted to hold onto Mario's last life.

_Tap. Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, TAP._

"Go _on_," he hissed in encouragement as his stylus pushed the little bundle of pixels in a daring leap over a stack of boxes. The tapping in the background was getting annoying.

_Tap, tappity, tap-tap-tap-tappity-tappity-TAP! _

One over-quick, stupid move, one Bowser shooting fire, and the game emitted the sad little tune that signified Mario's current demise. House snapped the DS shut in irritation and marched over to his balcony door, which sounded like mad woodpeckers were trying to construct a condominium on its glass surface. "What?" he barked, pulling it open.

Wilson stood there, his usually-perfect coif mussed and his tie askew. "You!" he whisper-shouted, pointing at House accusingly. "You, you, _YOU!"_

"Why, Wilson, looks like you're in dire need of that emergency blow-dryer you keep in your locker. Been having some stressful consults this morning?"

"Shhhh!" Wilson gestured frantically. "Keep your voice down! He thinks I'm just—look, what's going _on_ with Chase?"

"From the look of things, I'd say you were." House leaned against the doorjamb, thoroughly enjoying himself while at the same time blocking any possible escape route for Wilson.

Wilson paced around the balcony, ignoring the last remark. "I thought it was some kind of joke at first. He was_ crying_, House! Chase, who doesn't say shit about his feelings even when you punch him in the face, was sobbing and trying to crawl into my lap!" He put his hands on his hips and glared at House. "So what did you do to him?"

"Me?" House was suddenly off-balance. "I didn't do anything!"

"Right. That's why he kept saying you were mean to him and begged me to intercede with you. Well," Wilson ran a hand through his hair and straightened his tie, "at least I can tell him that I _tried_ to talk to you. If I'm going to take him home with me, he has to feel that he can trust me."

House's mouth dropped open. "You're taking him home with you? You're joking, right?"

"Of course I'm joking, you ass!" Wilson was back in frantic mode. "What the hell did you think you were doing, locking him in my office with me? Obviously something happened to his brain while he was in the coma! He called me _his_ Wilson! He tried to—he got down on his knees and—!" He gestured furiously at his belt.

"Yeah, Chase has been unusually affectionate since waking up."

"This is funny to you, isn't it? Meanwhile, the only way I could get him to let go of me was to give him direct orders."

"Really?" House lifted an eyebrow. "Direct orders like—?"

"Right now, he's reorganizing my files," Wilson admitted a bit shamefacedly.

"Hmph. Seems that I'm not the only person around here taking advantage of an invalid." House swung his legs and cane over the short wall that divided his balcony from Wilson's, limped over to the glass door, and peered through. "Uh, Wilson, I'm guessing you forgot to order him to keep his clothes on while filing."

"What?" Wilson quickly vaulted the wall.

"Ugh!" House winced, turning away from the door with one hand at the side of his face, blocking his peripheral vision. "Guess Chase likes filing a lot more than the rest of us do. Enjoys it way too much if you ask me."

Wilson pushed past him to look through the door. "He's_ not_—!" He turned back to House. "You're such a liar. He's still fully clothed."

"Yeah, but you didn't know that. You wanted to see him naked." House started chanting in a sing-song voice. "Jimmy wanted to see Chase naked! Jimmy wanted to see Chase naked _and_ hard!"

"I did not!" hissed Wilson frantically. "I was just worried! I have patients arriving in about five minutes."

"Excuses, excuses. You jumped that wall so fast, you could've qualified for the Olympic time trials. Admit it, Wilson, you think Chase is cute."

"No, I don—" Wilson stopped and bit his lip pensively. "Okay, maybe I do."

"What?" House's eyes widened.

"Just a little," mumbled Wilson. "After those dreams I started having about him last winter…it's only natural." He looked appealingly over at House. "He's an attractive man, but it doesn't mean anything, right?"

House looked floored. "Are you serious?"

"No. You're an ass, House."

"You're both asses." Cameron moved out onto the balcony from House's office, glaring at the two men. "Acting like a couple of twelve-year-olds, having fun at Chase's expense when he's obviously not well." She crossed over the wall and rapped sharply on Wilson's door. "Robert! Come out here."

Chase appeared at the doorway with a bemused expression, his hands full of files. "Wow. This place is suddenly really crowded."

"Don't worry about it; just put the files down and come with me. I'm taking you to Princeton General for a few tests."

"Okay." Chase obediently disappeared for a moment, then returned to follow Cameron across the balcony. Just as he reached the dividing wall, he stopped and looked back at the two men. "Uh, _Doctor _Wilson, just to let you know—your glass door isn't soundproof." He looked them both up and down for a moment, a slow, seductive smile curving his lips, then turned and vaulted the wall.

House and Wilson silently watched him as he followed Cameron into House's office.

Wilson finally turned away, leaning over the rail and tugging at his collar. "A little hot out here, isn't it?"

"Yeah, a little," House agreed, resting his forearms on the rail.

"Doesn't mean anything, though."

"Nope. No, not at all."

The two looked out over the city for another minute before returning to their respective offices without exchanging another word.

* * *

* * *

"Thanks for the gourmet lunch, House." The words were a bit muffled, consonants unarticulated, lost in the morass of sticky vowels.

"Don't talk with your mouth full," House reprimanded absently, before innocently widening his eyes. "Wait, was that supposed to be sarcastic?"

Chase would've sighed, but the glob of peanut butter and bread stuck to the roof of his mouth made dramatic exhalations impossible. He settled for scraping at the glob with his tongue, hoping to dislodge it without having to resort to using a finger. For some reason, ever since first grade, using the finger was equivalent to Fail to the nth degree.

Diligence won out, and he was finally able to swallow the last of his lunch. He looked across the breakroom counter to see House observing him with a sort of fascinated appreciation.

"Nice tongue action," House said, catching his eye.

Damn. He should've used his finger.

His world gave a little lurch again, his brain shrieking "Weird!" for one brief moment before he got himself back under control. If there was any lesson that life kept teaching him, it was to roll with the punches.

So he did what he would normally do. Complain. "Glad that someone's happy. Though in my opinion, if you're offering to buy a person's lunch to celebrate important life events such as coming out of a coma, the least you could do is, let me think here…_pay_ for that lunch?"

"Don't blame me," replied House, unconcerned. "Wilson _would_ choose to go to a meeting about FDA Phase III studies for a new cancer drug, instead of meeting us for lunch."

"Where _are _his priorities?" Chase agreed with an edge to his voice. "Putting cancer patients' welfare over the needs of your stomach."

"_Our_ stomachs," House reminded, screwing the peanut butter lid back on the jar. "Like I said, blame him."

"I suppose I should also blame him for the lack of any jam or jelly in this place as well?"

"I don't see why not. Blaming Wilson takes care of most problems in my life. C'mon, now that you've been well-fed, it's time to get back to the office."

"Well-fed," muttered Chase, but he followed closely on House's heels, almost having to break into a jog to keep up with the older doctor's rapid pace. He found himself growing breathless and wondered how fast House had moved in the years before the limp and cane. No matter—the important thing was to not lose sight of him now.

Chase mentally chided himself as he followed House onto the elevator. It was irrational, this fear of getting lost in the familiar environs of PPTH. But everything seemed a little off, the stairwells, offices, and elevators not quite where he remembered them. He was suddenly seized with empathy for people who struggled with the onset of Alzheimer's, wondering if this was what it felt like: this thrill of terror when the familiar suddenly looked completely strange.

"Penny for your thoughts, no increase for inflation," House said out of nowhere.

Chase blinked before shaking his head. "Nothing interesting," he lied, then firmly pushed back his fears (_There's something -wrong- with my brain!), _resolving to deal with them later. Alone. If at all.

The elevator doors opened, and to his relief, the corridor assumed the familiar fishbowl façade of the Diagnostics Department. Chase followed House into his office—and stopped in shock at the sight of three teenaged girls draped moodily over the furniture. Even more shocking was the fact that instead of driving them out with acid remarks and a few well-placed thwacks of his cane, House was smiling at them with indulgent fondness.

Reaching his hand surreptitiously under his sleeve, Chase pinched his forearm hard. Nope, he was definitely not dreaming.

"Dr. Chase, these girls are Taryn, Erin, and Fauntleroy."

"Fauntleroy?" Chase blurted out before he could stop himself.

"Yes, her mother wanted to give her baby girl a trendy, masculine name to demonstrate her profound originality as a parent. Unfortunately, her Lamaze yoga class and Pre-natal Pilates group had already claimed any number of Dakotas, Madisons, Baileys, Dylans, Taylors, Tylers, and Codys, so she had to settle for naming her daughter Fauntleroy."

Fauntleroy scowled darkly, eyebrow rings clinking together above bright blue eyes that contrasted starkly with her terribly original rebellious black eyeshadow (Maybelline IB Goth #5).

"And they're in your office because…?" Chase prompted.

"Well, Fauntleroy is my niece by a sibling I'd never heard of previously, since I'd spent the first thirty-four years of my life telling people that I was an only child."

"Wait—you didn't know that you had a sibling? But I thought your parents never divorced, so—"

"No need to sound so skeptical," House retorted. "I'm sure that you have any number of big brothers or little sisters ready to turn up on a moment's notice."

"My home wasn't that big, House. I'm pretty sure that if I'd had any siblings, I would've tripped over them once or twice over the years."

"Don't be so cocky," House said darkly. "Random relatives just appear out of nowhere; that's the way life works. Get used to it."

Chase waited for the punchline. Nothing.

Just as he was drawing a breath to ask another obvious question, House continued with the introductions, waving a hand at one of the remaining two girls. "Speaking of random relatives, Taryn is my long-lost daughter by Cuddy, conceived while we were in medical school, neither one of us finding out about her existence until last month."

"Daughter? Cuddy?" Chase sputtered stupidly before getting his brain to formulate a coherent thought. "How could Dr. Cuddy _not_ know she had a child? Usually, the mother tends to be somewhat aware of giving birth." House lifted an eyebrow at him, and Chase wondered when he would learn to keep his stupid mouth shut.

"She forgot," said House, and the blond sixteen-year old girl with her hair razor-cut to shoulder length with pink highlighted streaks, wearing a cute denim miniskirt and see-through lace croptop with a black beaded camisole and scuffed Converses, gave a self-conscious pout of her pale pink-glossed lips lined with Kiss-Me-Silly lipliner.

"Oh," said Chase, unsure of the proper condolences to offer a teenager whose existence seemed to have slipped the minds of both her parents for the past sixteen years.

"And this adorable moppet," the red-haired thirteen-year-old scowled so fiercely that Chase pulled back the hand he was offering her, "is my little sister Erin, only thirty-four years younger than me, her birth having qualified my mother for the Guinness Book of World Records for Post-Menopausal Pregnancy Successfully Brought to Term."

"Um, congratulations?" Chase was at a complete loss.

Erin sneered, then tossed her head back and dry-swallowed ten Vicodin tablets.

"Tolerates those narcotic hydrocodones just like her big brother," House said fondly. "Inherited my limp as well."

"But a physical injury can't be passed on since it's not genetically based, not to mention that siblings don't inherit from each other—oh, never mind." Chase sighed, giving up on the pesky laws of Mendelian genetics for the time being. He reminded himself of his earlier resolution to roll with the punches, no matter how wild those punches might be. "So they're all here at the hospital because…?"

"Why wouldn't they be?" House seemed genuinely confused by Chase's question. "It's a teaching hospital, isn't it?"

Chase swallowed his retorts about OSHA and Joint Commission regulations prohibiting underaged civilians from walking freely around staff areas of medical facilities; obviously, the rules as he knew them didn't apply anymore. "Okay," he said carefully, "seeing as we don't have a case, and I've just been released from the ICU, I think maybe I'll call it a day and go home."

Four identical pairs of cerulean azure cobalt sapphire orbs of dazzling blue fixed on Chase with laser intensity, stopping the words in his throat.

"You can't leave," said House.

"Why not?" squeaked Chase (then pinched himself _double hard _for emitting a ridiculously girly sound.)

"Because you have to choose which girl you're going to fall in love with."

Three pairs of cerulean azure cobalt sapphire orbs wavered under wildly fluttering eyelashes.

"House, you can't be serious! They range in age from thirteen to nineteen at most!"

"Oh, that's right; they're a bit older than your favorite single digit make-out demographic."

Chase scowled but felt an undeniable wave of relief at House's familiar mocking tone. Right now, he'd settle for anything halfway close to normal.

"Fine," sighed House. "Dr. Chase doesn't want to play. Makes no difference; I wasn't going to let any of you estrogen-drenched anklebiters have him anyway. He's mine." He grabbed Chase, dipped him deeply, and planted a big kiss on him.

Chase wrenched out of his embrace. "Are you insane? STOP KISSING ME!"

"So does that mean you like us girls better?" asked Taryn hopefully.

"No!"

"See, he likes me best, he said so!" taunted House, and the three girls wailed, pulling out razors and carving RC onto their wrists in loopy calligraphy.

"House!" shrieked Chase (the thought crossing his mind that he would've preferred to emit a somewhat more masculine sound, a shout for example, but given the fact that three girls were spurting venous blood on his behalf, perhaps panic could excuse the slightly higher pitch.)

"Oh, enough of the emo, bitches, outta my office!" House smacked the razors out of their hands, then used his cane to herd them into the hallway, locking the door in their faces. "You're ruining the mood. Go cry to Cuddy. And have her stitch you up in the clinic while you're at it."

Chase collapsed on the office couch, gripping his head in his hands as he listened to House drawing the window blinds. The clattering sound seemed as sharp and real as, well, reality, as real as the sharp pain in his arm when he pinched himself (_as real as House's kiss_)—but that proved nothing.

Enough of this. He wasn't going to figure anything out as long as he remained in the vicinity of House's…madhouse. Chase stood up. "I'm going home. And you can't stop me this time."

"Stop you?" House sent him a quizzical blue gaze. "Not only am I _not_ trying to stop you—I'm going to drive you there."

"Like hell! I have my own car, so you can just forget about it."

* * *

"Go away, House." Chase looked around the dimly lit environs of the PPTH parking garage, hoping to catch a glimpse of his car somewhere in this murk. Honestly, the only thing this place needed to complete its creepy atmosphere was a zombie or two lurching out from behind the support pillars. 

"Is that any way to talk to the guy that kept you from getting lost at least three times during this excursion? If it wasn't for me, you'd currently be looking for your car in the NICU, probably frisking the preemie' bassinets for your keys."

Chase hoped the gloom hid his flush of embarrassment. One more screw-up, and House would probably send him off for a brain scan (_To see if you have one,_ he could almost hear House snerk), when all he wanted to do was go home and rest. He _had _to find his car, or—

"There it is!" He could barely make out his license plate against the shadowed bulk of the vehicle, but he didn't care. _Car_, he thought as he hurried up to it. _Home. Safe._ "What the _fuck?"_ He stared at the decrepit old wreck that was inexplicably bearing his license number. "What the hell happened to my car?"

There was a leisurely step-tap, step-tap as House caught up to him. "Hm, my guess is that your warranty ran out. Sometime during the Jurassic period is my estimate."

"This is impossible!" Chase burst out, walking around the car in dazed disbelief. "I just bought this car two years ago! It wasn't anything flash, but it sure as hell wasn't—!" He poked at the passenger side door, which responded with a gentle shower of rust flakes. "This couldn't possibly happen in just two days!"

House leaned on his cane meditatively. "I told you that thing was a piece of junk from the moment you putt-putted into work, but you insisted that it was a good car. As if you Brits know anything about auto-_mo_biles. Myself, I suspect that there's a painting in a locked attic somewhere, the portrait of a really fine driving machine. The Picture of Dorian Car."

"Just shut it," snapped Chase as he tried to pull duct tape off the door handle. "I don't care what insane—impossible—freakish—_bollocked-up madness_ keeps happening, I'm driving this car _home!"_ He could hear the edge of hysteria in his own voice, but at this point, he didn't care. Tugging fruitlessly at the door handle, he finally remembered his remote keyed entry, and pulled his keys from his pocket. Pointing the little black remote at the driver's door, he depressed the Unlock button.

The car shuddered and emitted an electronic whoop. With a tremendous clang, the front fender crashed to the ground, cracking in half.

To House's credit, he didn't make a single sound except for a brief, breathless wheeze. Which was why Chase was able to refrain from killing him.

"You know," said Chase after an extended silence, "on second thought, I believe I will accept your offer of a ride home."

* * *

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Thank you for reading.

Aenisses 24-July-2007


	8. NonMedical Emergencies

Disclaimer: All rights to House MD belong to David Shore, Heel and Toe Films and Bad Hat Harry Productions in association with NBC Universal Television Studio. I do not make any monetary profit from this fanfiction.

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* * *

**Chapter Eight. Non-Medical Emergencies**

Chase stumbled as he dismounted the motorcycle, catching himself by grabbing at the raised rear seat. House had unclipped his cane and dismounted smoothly and, Chase suspected, was probably sending mocking looks in his passenger's direction.

"Enjoy the ride?"

"Oh, yeaaah," said Chase sarcastically, drawing out the vowels with Aussie emphasis. "'Specially liked the part where you almost scraped my leg off on the tarmac."

"Tarmac, tarmac…funny, I didn't see any airplanes around." House limped over to examine Chase's calf through the torn fabric of his jeans, his light tone belied by his frown of concern. "Oh, wait, I get it. In civilized countries, we call it blacktop or asphalt." He straightened, the frown replaced by his usual smirk. "Not much blood, no real harm—and a very sexy right turn due to consummate skill at counterwheeling, if I do say so myself."

"Yeah, and you're the only one who says so!" Chase replied heatedly, walking in a circle to loosen up the scraped leg. "Me, I got a torn pair of jeans!"

"All part of the master plan." House grinned in appreciation. "Though it's hard to take any of this righteous rage seriously with your hair looking like that."

Chase put his hand up self-consciously, groaning as he felt the wild waves sticking out in every direction. "Why don't I get to wear a helmet like Cameron does? Probably looks like I've been dragged through a hedge backwards."

"Ah, Vanity, thy name is Chase. For the record, you don't look like you've been dragged through a hedge backwards; you look like you've been propelled through a hedge forwards at ninety miles an hour."

"Big difference; ta much." Chase skirted around House and started up the steps of his apartment building. "Thanks for the ride as well; see you whenever," he finished ungraciously.

"What, no invitation inside for a drink? Not even a glass of water? I'm wounded, Robbie, wounded!" House shouted from the street.

Chase fumbled with his keys and turned the lock, then put his forehead against the outer door. Damn this inbred sense of hospitality; it was literally making his stomach churn to be so rude. He turned back towards the street, "Fine, then; d'ya want to—"

—then jumped, because House was right there in his face.

"Didn't bother waiting for you to ask," House said breezily. "I knew all that Catholic guilt wouldn't let you leave me out on the street."

Chase sighed, stepping inside and unlocking his apartment door—

—and was suddenly grateful for House's presence behind him, because it was the one thing keeping him from collapsing and beating his fists against the floor at the final indignity in a day already arse-high in indignities.

Instead, he simply swallowed hard and rasped, "I've been robbed."

"Really?" House moved past him, his voice echoing off the ceiling and walls. "You could tell that just by standing there?"

"Very funny, House!" Chase waved his arms violently at his living room. "I suppose you think this is some kind of joke!"

"What's wrong?" House was doing a great job at sounding honestly puzzled, Chase thought bitterly. "I mean, what's missing?"

"My couch, for one!" spat Chase. "My chairs, table—oh, and goodbye, teakwood bookcase and oriental carpet!" He stalked over and kicked one of the three orange crates scattered around the room. "On top of that, the bloody thief has the nerve to mock me by leaving this garbage lying around!"

"Robbie—_Chase_, listen to me!"

But Chase had already headed to the bedroom for his second shock in less than a minute. "What the bloody fuckin hell did that rotten rat bastard do with my _bed_?" The last word ended in an infuriated shriek.

House limped up as Chase fumbled open his cell phone, punching in the emergency code. "Yes, I need to report…no—_re_-port…_yes_, it's an emergency, why the bloody hell would I be calling you if it wasn't? Oh, fine, I'll talk slower…Robert Chase, 328 North Caldwell, Number 2…wait, don't you even want to know what I'm reporting? Fine, two blocks off Princeton Kingston Road…no, Princeton, not Plainsboro. Caldwell..C-A-L-D-W-E-L-L. You know, if I were having a heart attack, I'd be dead by now! No, I'm _not _having a heart attack, I was just saying—look, I've been robbed. _No,_ I don't have any chest pains; my _house_ has been robbed! What did they—they took everything! All of my furniture—yes, and listen, they left stuff behind. In my bedroom, they left…a dissecting table. Di-ssect-ing table. Yes, like in a morgue. _No,_ this isn't a prank—What do you mean, the worst fake British accent you've ever heard? Wait, don't—"

Chase stared at his phone. "She just hung up on me!"

A hand reached over his shoulder and snatched the phone out of his grip. "Just as well. I'd hate to have to explain to the boys in blue that you were having another one of your episodes."

"Episodes!" Chase was nearly incoherent with rage. "You think I'm imagining this? Look at this place! Just look at it!"

House grimaced as he poked his cane into a nestlike bundle of bedclothes perched precariously on the stainless steel dissecting table. "Yeah, it's cold, impersonal, devoid of comfort or emotional associations…why else do you think we never did it here?"

"We never _did it_ anywhere!" Chase stormed out into the living room and through to the small kitchen. He pulled open a cabinet. "What—what—why did that bloody arse steal all my food but then fill my cabinets with fifty boxes of Frosted Flakes?"

"Maybe it's because you like sugar," said House in an uncharacteristically gentle tone, as if he were humoring a madman.

"Nobody over the age of six likes sugar that much!" Chase stopped, an alarmed expression taking over his features. "Wait, you think the thief's been watching me? You think I'm being stalked?"

"It wouldn't be the first time." House took hold of Chase's shoulders as he started in fear. "But I don't think that's what happened this time. Listen, everything in your apartment is the same as it's always been, as far as I can see. No one's stolen your furniture; you've never had any to steal."

"That's stupid," Chase protested weakly. "I've lived here for almost four years. Look, I _remember_ my stuff; I had my oriental carpet on lay-by for damn near forever till I could take it home. How can you be sure that—"

"Believe me, Robbie, if you'd had an oriental carpet, I would've remembered it. We would've done it. Right here. On the Oriental. With all the lights on."

Chase's features twisted, his expression managing to combine faint horror and annoyance. "That's sick."

House sighed. "It's a movie quote; very famous. Prizzi's Honor. Then again, you were probably still in diapers when the movie came out." He grasped Chase by the elbow and led him over to a cheap chrome bookcase that tipped against one wall. "Here, why don't you pick out one of your favorite DVDs? We'll just chill for awhile and let you…calm down."

Chase's mouth dropped open in horror. "The ruddy bastard even stole my _books!"_

House raised his eyes to the ceiling. "Bad idea," he chided himself as Chase tore books off the shelves.

"Where are my medical journals? My novels?"

"Here, Robbie, this one looks—"

"It's _pink!"_ shrieked Chase. "They're _all_ pink! And they all have Princess in the title!"

"Yeah, your favorite author, Meg Cabot, wrote—"

"I don't know who the bloody hell Meg Cabot is, and I don't want to know! Where are my John le Carre novels? My PD James? My Thomas Keneally? What are these—Harry _Potter?"_

"Voldemort himself never uttered the name with as much loathing as you just did," rebuked House. "And this from the President of the Princeton Potter Appreciation Society. The club is going to revoke your Gryffindor Honorary Magic-User badge if you don't watch out."

Chase stared at him. "You're insane. This whole situation is insane. I have a mad stalker invading my apartment and messing with my stuff, and all you can do is make stupid jokes. Well, I've had enough! I'm packing my clothes and checking into a hotel for the night."

"Robbie, wait! You might not want to—"

Ignoring him, Chase marched back into his bedroom and yanked open his closet door.

Fifty-seven wombat dolls and puppets came tumbling off the shelves, burying him in an avalanche of soft, acrylic fur.

He stood perfectly still for a moment, trying to decide which curse words at which decibel level could adequately express what he was feeling at this moment—and reluctantly came to the conclusion that none of them would come close. Shoving the fuzzy beasts off him, he noticed House standing in the doorway with an expression that wavered between amusement and concern. Chase gritted his teeth, the only sign of emotion his flaring nostrils. "So where did all of these come from?" he asked with controlled mildness.

"The hospital gift shop, mostly." House turned over several of the wombats with his cane. "Cameron gave you this one after your first bout of pneumonia, this one after you broke your neck falling down the stairs, this one after you were stabbed by a maniac in the clinic. I got you this one after the first time you were—"

"I was never stabbed, or any of those other things, either," Chase interrupted, feeling his control slipping away at House's list of hospitalizations and their bizarre causes.

He sank down to sit cross-legged with his head in his hands, taking deep breaths and trying to remain calm. As he saw it, he had a choice: he could either freak out and pitch a wobbly at every weird thing that happened—even now he could feel the frustrated screams rising in his throat—or he could take control in the only way he knew how, dealing with the small stuff and letting the big issues take care of themselves.

No contest. He slipped into his "deal with it" mode with the ease of long familiarity, tackling the smallest of the big questions looming over this day. "Why does a New Jersey hospital stock so many wombat dolls anyway? They're piss ugly for one thing," he grabbed three of the blunt-nosed marsupials and threw them across the room, "and for another, you don't run across this many even in Sydney or Perth."

"Probably because PPTH has bought out manufacturer stock worldwide. You're pretty accident-prone, you know."

Chase gave up trying to argue. He stood up and leaned disconsolately against the dissecting table. "So this is it, then. If I stay here, I get to sleep on a cold metal table, surrounded by hordes of grinning rodents. Bonzer." He shook himself irritably. "And why do I keep using clichéd Aussie slang? I'm not bloody Steve Irwin!"

"Croc's a beauuut, though a bit stroppy, mate!" House rolled his eyes at Chase's annoyed look. "Fine, I can see that you're in no mood for boot-knocking at the moment—"

"Or _ever_," snarled Chase.

"—so I guess I have to find some other way to cheer you up. Good thing I have these." House reached into his motorcycle jacket pocket. "Tickets to the theatre. Put on your glad rags, Robbie, we're going to the show!"

* * *

* * *

Cameron pushed through the doors of Diagnostics, relieved to see House dozing in his darkened office. Somewhere far behind her trailed Chase, delayed by his sudden fascination with the elevators, offices, and personnel of the hospital in which he had trained for the past four years. It was worrisome behavior, all the more worrisome in light of the results of the Princeton General MRI.

She rapped sharply on the glass door that divided House's office from the conference room, perversely pleased to see him startle. Finding herself the object of a bleary-eyed glare, she held up the large three-foot-long manila envelope that held Chase's scans and walked into his office without waiting for acknowledgment.

"MRI of Chase's brain," she announced, clipping the scan to House's wall-mounted light box and switching it on. "Here're some scans of his heart as well; I asked the staff at Prince Gen to scan him for cardiac problems while they had him in the machine."

House threw his arm over his eyes. "The light, it _buuuurns!"_ he hissed like a cheesy movie vampire before kicking out of his chair and limping over to the light box. He let out a low whistle. "Well, I'll be damned."

"What?" Cameron frowned, standing on her toes to look over his shoulder.

"Chase's brain. He actually has one."

"Oh, ha, ha, I never saw that one coming," Cameron said dryly. "Do you think you can restrain your grade-school sense of humor long enough to evaluate the images?"

"Since when did you become the passionate Chase defender?" House moved up so that his nose was almost touching the images. "Did Coma-Boy show you a good time in the Princeton General supply closets? I expect to see a review from you in the PPTH newsletter comparing the merits of shelved versus non-shelved closets for those really deep cleaning issues, if you know what I mean."

In spite of her best intentions, Cameron felt her face flush and her jaw tense. "Just tell me if you see anything," she said tightly, all the while knowing what a mistake it was to let House know that his remarks had gotten to her.

However, to her surprise, House let the opportunity slide, frowning as he removed the brain scans and flipped them over. "You put these up backwards."

"No, I didn't; the MRI tech's initials are right there." Cameron pointed at the stamp that was now backwards in the lower right corner.

"But the radiologist signed them on this side, see?" House pointed at the scribble in the lower left corner. "Maybe basking in all that post-coital bliss has caused you to miss a few minor details."

So much for a reprieve from House's acid remarks. Cameron's lip curled in irritation. "Not that it's any of your business, but you know damn well that Chase and I aren't together any more. In fact, we've probably had less closet time this month than you and Wilson."

"Hey, the kitten has claws," crowed House, looking pleased at finally provoking her into an outburst. "Although that's a low blow at poor Wilson, accusing him of being in the closet."

"That's not what I meant; I was just making a point about ridiculous suppositions about closets. Notice that I didn't put him in there alone."

House moved onto the heart scans. "Which makes sense, being that it's me you're mad at. But what does it say about your attitude towards gay people, if being closeted is the best insult you can come up with?"

"I'm not homophobic!"

"Really?" House's eyes lit up. "Because there's this fantasy I have about you and Cuddy, her breasts just about there, and your lips—"

"House." Foreman appeared in the doorway, one eyebrow raised in his usual manner. "Just to let you know, once you provoke Cameron into actually filing a sexual harassment suit, I intend to testify on her behalf."

"And I suppose she's promised to testify in your racial harassment suit in return. Don't you two think that all this scratching of each other's backs is somewhat incestuous? That's not even counting Chase and all of the real and imagined things you both have done with him."

Foreman's eyes took on the flat look that indicated real anger, so Cameron quickly jumped in. "Do you suppose we can possibly get back to analyzing Chase's brain scans instead of his sex life? Unless you're more interested in the second, House."

"Again with the claws," said House, maddeningly unfazed by Cameron's jabs.

Foreman stepped past him, viewing the scans as ostentatiously as possible. "Frontal, parietal, and occipital lobes appear normal. Temporal lobe…hmm. No, that's normal as well."

"So Chase's memory should be unaffected. Let's see—this means you really _did_ have rough sex with him last week, Foreman."

Foreman narrowed his eyes at House. "The temporal lobe isn't the only thing that affects memory, as you well know. Besides, when would I have had time to sex up Chase between all of your blow jobs?"

"Ka-ching!" House pumped his fist. "Now we be gettin' down with the ghetto stomp, Homey!"

Cameron cleared her throat impatiently. "If we could get back to the scans?"

_'Jealous,'_ mouthed House to Foreman, who responded with his usual eye roll. "All right, back to the batcave. The area of the brain that affects sexual response and emotions is the limbic system, so let's take a closer look at the amygdala and hippocampus. And here we _see_—"

Cameron and Foreman leaned in close.

"—complete normality. Sorry, folks, but I'm going to have to agree with Prince Gen's neuroradiologist. Whatever's wrong with Chase, it doesn't appear to be in his brain."

Cameron shook her head. "Then what could explain his delusions? PTSD? Intermittent oxygen deprivation?"

"Well, let's take a look at his heart, see if he's having problems pumping oxygenated blood to his organs."

"Wait." Foreman reached out and flipped the heart scan around. "You put this up backwards, House."

House smirked at Cameron. "Good thing my fellows are a little more competent than Princeton General's MRI technician."

"Was that a compliment?" asked Foreman. "Because if it was, I think I have to run home and get my camcorder."

"Don't break out the skin drums for the celebration just yet, Man Friday; I said you were a _little_ more competent than a moron who never went to medical school, that's all. Now can you continue this wave ride of success and tell me what's wrong with Chase's heart?"

Foreman stared at the scans, looking desperately for any anomaly. Finally he shook his head in defeat. "I can't see anything. Everything looks normal to me."

"I don't see anything wrong, either," said Cameron. "So what is it, House?"

"I didn't say something _was_ wrong; I just wanted to know if you two saw anything." He ignored their sighs of aggravation. "So if Chase's brain and heart are normal, why all the batshit behavior? Be forewarned, if either of you suggests anything with the term _'psych'_ in it, I'm liable to lose control of my cane and hit you. Accidentally, of course."

"But why shouldn't it be a psychological cause?" argued Cameron. "He's been through enough trauma—"

"Yes, yes, you dumping him broke his widdle heart," said House, winking broadly at Foreman, who hid his smirk behind his hand.

"I'm not talking about that! I'm talking about the fact that he was clinically dead for several minutes. Regardless of the fact that his organs don't seem to have suffered any harm, maybe there was some damage done to his psyche. Subconsciously."

"Ah, yes," House nodded knowledgeably. "You're talking about 'White Light Syndrome,' the psychological side effects of seeing heaven, and then being pulled back."

"I, uh…" Cameron shook her head. "Actually, I've never heard of that."

"No wonder, because it doesn't _exist!_ Not unless you're a Buffy the Vampire Slayer fan. So why don't we dispense with the mystical mumbo-jumbo and stick to hard science, okay? Let's try to get this figured out before Coma-Boy returns."

Cameron started, a guilty look crossing her features. "Wait, where is Chase? He should've been up here around the same time as Foreman."

Foreman smirked wider. "The last I saw, he was flirting with Brenda in the clinic and trying to get her phone number."

"Evil Nurse Brenda?" House whistled in admiration. "Okay, I give the New, Improved Chase major points for growing a significant set of balls. If I had the nerve, I'd so hit the Clinic Gorgon."

"You've got to be joking!" Cameron and Foreman looked equally dumbfounded.

"Why would I joke about that? The hate sex would be damn near nuclear!"

"And just as likely to kill you as a nuclear explosion." Cameron grabbed Foreman's arm. "Did she seem mad at Chase?"

"I don't know. Generally, I rate Brenda's expressions on the DEFCON scale: DEFCON 5 is a good day, when she might kill you with a painless chop to the neck, whereas DEFCON 1 happens during epidemics, when she's likely to give you a long, slow death by evisceration. From the way she was looking at Chase, she was either going to take him home with her or give him a radical testicular resection without anesthesia; it's kind of hard to tell with her."

"Oh, God, I have to get him out of there!" Cameron turned around and dashed out of House's office, nearly running down Cuddy on her way in.

Cuddy turned and watched the fleeing immunologist. "So, House, I see your staff relations are at their usual superior level. Should I be prepared to talk Cameron out of resigning?"

"Nah, she's fine." House grabbed his cane and brushed past Cuddy.

"Wait!" said Cuddy. "I wanted to talk to you about Chase! How is he doing?"

"Excellent, I'd say. He's about to have two women claw each other's eyes out over him. Hey, Foreman, get over here!" House punched the elevator button impatiently.

"He's joking, right?" Cuddy asked Foreman. Foreman shrugged, joining his boss at the elevator.

"Here you go." House pulled out his wallet. "Fifty bucks on the skinny brunette taking down the battleaxe. Even odds, right?"

"House, where are you going?" Cuddy shouted as the two men entered the elevator.

"To the clinic," he replied, smirking as the elevator doors closed, leaving her dumbfounded and alone in the middle of the hallway.

* * *

_To be continued_

* * *

Note: Yes, Chase's 9-1-1 call did contain a little smirk from me, referring to the misguided British journalist who, back in Season 1, sneered at Jesse Spencer for his "phony British accent." (paraphrased) 

Thank you for reading.

Aenisses 6-August-2007


	9. Detente

Disclaimer: All rights to House MD belong to David Shore, Heel and Toe Films and Bad Hat Harry Productions in association with NBC Universal Television Studio. I do not make any monetary profit from this fanfiction.

Warning: Rated T for harsh language and sexual situations.

* * *

* * *

**Chapter 9. Détente **

In spite of the cane and damaged leg, House set a fast pace across the atrium, so Foreman was out of breath by the time he skidded through the clinic doors behind his boss.

Nurse Brenda looked up from behind the desk. "Oh, good, you're here. I already have your first patient waiting in Exam Room Two. Explosive diarrhea; suspected antibiotic-associated colitis. Or maybe just a bad hamburger." Her eyes glinted evilly.

An expression of mingled irritation and disappointment flashed across House's features almost too quickly to see. Foreman caught it, though, and was seized with conflicting feelings: his own disappointment at the rampant lack of catfight in the clinic, and triumph at the thought of winning House's bet.

"Does your wallet feel lighter?" he snarked quietly in House's ear. "Because mine just started feeling heavier by about fifty bucks."

House shrugged him off as if he were a mosquito, approaching Brenda with the swagger of a bullfighter entering the arena, trumpet fanfares obviously playing in his head. "Sorry, Maleficent, but I'm tied up with a case—_real_ medicine, you know, not that band-aid quackery you practice on these unsuspecting guinea pigs." Cupping his hand at the side of his mouth, he stage-whispered loudly, "Good idea, by the way, advertising free medical care; brings the suckers in by the truckload!"

Several of the patients in the waiting room began to look alarmed.

Brenda glared at House. "It just so happens that Dr. Cuddy dropped by one hour ago and said that you were free for the rest of the afternoon. No new cases in Diagnostics. Nothing to stop you from—what's that word again? Oh yes, _working_." She shoved a file folder into House's midsection. "So it's explosive diarrhea for you. Get cracking; pun intended."

House shoved the file back at her. "It just so happens that the Dean of Bodacious Ta-Tas is behind the times, which should be obvious from that flowered nightmare she's wearing today. I have a case, so I'm here only for the purpose of retrieving the rest of my team. I followed the trail of breadcrumbs, and—" He craned his neck, looking towards the exam rooms. "You wouldn't happen to have seen Hansel and Gretel, by any chance? You might remember Hansel in particular: horny blond with an accent?"

Brenda lifted her chin. "I might remember later. Try me again after you see the patient in Exam Two."

"A-_ha!"_ House leaned in close. "Is that a bit of gristle between your teeth? I could've told you that Gretel was too stringy for you. Or are you hiding them in a closet somewhere, saving them for a crockpot dinner with your two weird sisters? I warn you, although Hansel likes sweets, you're going to have a hard time fattening them up. They're probably exercising in the closet right now."

"Makes no difference; they're double the toil and not worth the trouble," Brenda said dryly. "So if you're not going to help out around here, you can reclaim them from the Lost Children Department, also known as the file room."

"Gee, thanks for the tip, Officer Krupke," called House, turning towards the waiting room, pointing at his chest and mouthing '_She wants me bad,'_ to the clinic patients. Foreman did his usual eye roll.

They were barely ten steps towards the file room when Cameron appeared. Chase was trailing her in his now customary lost puppy way, wearing a dark blue scrub shirt under his buttonless outer shirt, obviously cadged from some susceptible employee of Princeton General.

"Minions! In formation!" barked House, reversing direction and limping towards the clinic exit.

Foreman caught up to House and snickered in his ear. "You _still_ owe me fifty bucks. Cameron and Brenda seem downright chummy," pointing to where the two women were exchanging a few pleasant words at the clinic desk as Chase hovered in the background.

House stopped, then slowly turned around. "Why, Cameron, I almost forgot to congratulate you on rescuing Chase from a fate worse than death. Isn't that what you said when you heard he'd been flirting with Brenda?" Brenda lifted her face and shot House a narrow-eyed glare.

Cameron flushed, embarrassed. "You know that I didn't say that, House!"

"Words to that effect," House said, waving a hand airily. "Or didn't you come skidding in here less than five minutes ago, frantically calling Chase's name?"

Chase's eyes widened. "Wait, that's exactly—"

"So that's what was worrying you?" Brenda's gimlet gaze was now fixed on Cameron.

"No! No. It's just," Cameron tried tapping her temple discreetly without letting Chase see her motions, "he's not…fully recovered yet." She dropped her voice confidentially. "It's obvious that he doesn't realize what he's doing. You see that, don't you, Brenda?"

A muscle twitched in Brenda's jaw. "Oh, I see. I see perfectly. The fact that Dr. Chase tried to pick me up makes it _obvious_ that he's not right in the head; that's what you're trying to say."

"Yes! I mean, no!"

House grinned as Cameron became increasingly flustered.

"You're still losing," Foreman growled in his ear.

"Don't count my girl out yet," House whispered back conspiratorially.

"It doesn't matter," Brenda said, waving Cameron and Chase on their way. "After all, I wasn't likely to fall for his pathetic attempts at seduction. _Especially_ knowing his past history." She paused for maximum effect. "After all, a woman's got to look out for her…personal health."

Camron stopped short as if struck, her face growing pale with rage as she turned to face the nurse.

"_Now_ it's going down," whispered House, gleefully doing sideline commentary. "Medusa strikes from behind, but Barbarella winds up for the return pitch!"

"It's not his past that's a danger to him," Cameron said deliberately, "but his future that worries me. After all, Chase has enough injuries; he hardly needs to wake up somewhere strange, needing to gnaw his arm off to get away."

Brenda flushed red with fury. In an act of unprecedented kindness, House hooked Chase with his cane and dragged him to safety behind Foreman.

The nurse didn't bother to conceal her rage. "Listen, little missy, I've seen dozens of your kind come and go. It would be no trouble at all for me to assign every spewing, crapping clinic patient to you for the next few years. Don't doubt that I can make your life a living hell."

House blinked at the venom behind the threat, and reluctantly had to give props to Cameron for standing undaunted with her arms crossed defiantly.

"That's _Doctor_ Cameron to you, Nurse Previn, and I'll remind you that I can just as easily refer all of my patients in Immunology and Rheumatology to _that _phone number," she pointed at the clinic phone on the reception desk, "for any possible medical questions they might have. Might I also remind you that most of them are geriatric patients? You'll spend all day with that phone ringing off the hook."

"I can just transfer them through to your pager!" Brenda spat.

"And I can accidentally lose my pager and have Dr. House buy me a new one with a new number. _Right_, Dr. House?"

House, frozen in the sudden spotlight, made a quick calculation as to which woman could inflict more grief on him in a given week, then gave a jaunty thumbs up to Cameron.

Brenda sagged in defeat. "We would make each other miserable for no purpose at all."

"My point exactly." Cameron softened her stance. "For what it's worth, I meant no offense earlier."

"So I guess it's in my best interest to take no offense as well."

Cameron nodded and smiled, although her eyes still glinted with a hard light.

"God, détente was boring enough in the seventies and eighties; I'm not gonna stick around to watch it a second time." House gestured at the clinic exit. "Come along, Minions With Balls. That means you, Cameron; the boys can stay here."

Foreman snorted and brushed past House, while Chase hesitated until Cameron grabbed his arm and led him out of the clinic.

* * *

* * *

Cameron pulled her car into the parking space that had just opened up in front of the block of brownstone apartments and switched off the engine, counting herself lucky to get a spot so close. Sitting in the darkness, she stretched wearily, trying to count how many hours of sleep she'd snagged in the last two days—maybe five total?

She looked over at her quiet passenger. Chase had dozed off with his head leaning against the window, the streetlight shining upon stray locks of blond hair that had fallen across his face, turning them into spunsilver floss. A thick black wire snaked out from under his scrub shirt, connecting electrode leads on his torso to a recorder that nestled in a leather harness at his waist. Holter monitor, recording his heartbeat for the next twenty-four hours.

A strange feeling swept through her, causing a muted ache in her chest. With light fingertips, she brushed the hair out of his eyes and briefly caressed his forehead. Was it true, the barb that House had tossed at her on that ill-begotten date? Could she only care about damaged men; was she so messed up psychologically that only now, when Chase was injured and confused, could he exert a strange pull on her emotions?

She jerked her hand back. No, it wasn't true. She'd been wrestling with conflicting emotions about him from the time she'd ended their affair…or, truthfully, even earlier than that.

"Please don't stop." Chase turned his head towards her and gave a slow, sleepy smile. "Do you know that you're the first person to touch me voluntarily since the coma?" His smile faltered. "Maybe they should add leprosy to my differential on the whiteboard."

Cameron blinked, startled yet again by Chase's openness since the accident. Gone were the walls and careful deflections; he seemed completely unselfconscious in revealing whatever thought crossed his mind at any given moment. Ironically, this made her more self-conscious on his behalf, so without thinking, she deflected his remark.

"You know that your case is only up on the whiteboard as an excuse for House to get out of clinic duty. Besides, you needed those tests run to make sure it was safe to release you from the hospital."

"And the fact that you all talk like I'm cracked is just window dressing to fool Cuddy, right?" Chase's smile turned bitter. "No, save your breath; I'm not going to make you lie. Despite what Greg says, I'm not a complete idiot; I can follow where this differential is going. Long-sleeved coats and padded rooms, right?"

"No. _No_," she reiterated, grabbing his arm and forcing him to face her. "It's not like that, Robert. It's not going to go there."

"Not if you can help it, right? But the question is—_can_ you help it?" Chase's eyes suddenly went unfocused. He shook his head, frowning and passing his hand across his brow.

Cameron leaned forward, her heart jumping into her throat. "Are you all right? Are you in pain?"

"No, I'm fine. Nothing physically wrong. It's just—" he looked at her, confused, "—I don't feel like myself; I mean, I feel like I'm talking like someone else, not me. Does that make sense?"

"Actually, just now you sounded more like yourself than you have since you woke from the coma."

He gave a wry laugh. "Somehow I'm not surprised you would say that. Yet it's the other stuff that you all keep yelling at me about—it's all the other stuff that feels like the real me."

"Like being in love with every member of the department, male and female alike? That seems _normal_ to you?" Cameron gritted her teeth, wanting to slap herself for being so blunt.

However, Chase didn't seem to take offense. "Since when is love a quantifiable, exhaustable resource? It's not like I can run out of it. I guess it'd seem saner to you if I held everyone distant, treating them with dislike and contempt. But wouldn't I be infringing on Greg's territory then?"

She smiled reluctantly at his mild quip. Chase looked out the side window. "I guess I'd better go in. Do…do you want to come up for a bit?"

Cameron sighed. "I don't think that would be a good idea right now."

"Yeah. Ar'right. Ta for the ride." He opened the car door, fumbling with his messenger bag, the Holter recorder sling, and various hospital papers and prescriptions.

"Call me if you need—if you feel sick or anything."

"Yeah, sure." He headed towards the steps of his apartment building, waving an awkward goodbye with his elbow as he juggled his possessions.

Cameron started her car but didn't pull away, watching Chase as he dug in his pockets for his keys while trying to balance everything else in his right hand. She winced as the inevitable happened: keys, papers, and prescriptions crashing to the ground as he fumbled desperately for the recorder. Without another thought, she switched off her car and joined him on the staircase, stooping down to retrieve his keys. "Here, I'll help you get through the door at least."

He opened his mouth as if to say something but seemed to think better of it, closing it again and just smiling gratefully. She moved past him into the foyer, then led the way to his apartment and unlocked his door. "I'm leaving your discharge orders on the coffee table, Chase; don't forget to—" She stopped, realizing that she was alone in the living room. "Chase? Robert?"

Chase reappeared in the doorway, his eyes wide with wonder. "I had to go back and check the number; is this _really_ my apartment?"

Cameron frowned. "Uh, yeah; why wouldn't it be?"

His face lit up in a radiant grin as he dropped his bag and supplies on the couch. "It's got so much—stuff!" Kicking off his shoes, he scuffed his feet over the oriental carpet. "Nice!"

"Chase, what's going on?" but he was already gone, rummaging through the kitchen cabinets before opening the refrigerator.

"Allison, would you want a Coke or orange juice or bottled water or a glass of Riesling or—" he stopped, holding up a bottle with the reverence due the Holy Grail, "—Holy Mother of God, how did I get hold of Carlton Draught in this land of bottled horse-piss?" He looked at her, apology written over his features. "Beg pardon for language."

"You look like a kid in a candy store," Cameron snickered, but he was already gone, having put the beer down and disappeared down the short hallway.

"Allison, come here! You've got to see this!"

She followed the sound of his voice, hesitating when she reached the doorway of his bedroom. Chase was gesturing excitedly at his queen-sized bed, thick blue comforter partially obscuring a plain white duvet. "Just look at it!"

"It's a bed." Cameron took care to make her voice as flat and uninterested as possible, pushing away visions of warm Saturday mornings _(resting her head on his chest as he ran his fingers through her hair_).

"It's a _fantastic_ bed," corrected Chase as he jumped up to stand on the mattress, holding out his hand invitingly. "Come on; let's have some fun."

"_No_. Try to get it through your thick Australian skull, Chase—it's over. We're _through_." She turned away abruptly, ignoring the stinging sensation behind her eyes.

"Wait!"

She stopped. (_Why did she listen to him, anyway?)_

"I didn't mean it that way, Allison." She kept her back to him, refusing to give him any encouragement whatsoever. His voice took on a wheedling tone. "Look, when you were a little girl, back in the days when boys were icky and stuck gum in your hair, what did you think was the best thing you could do with a bed?"

She turned around in spite of herself. "Sleep?"

He made the gameshow buzzer sound. "Wrong! Or else you were the most boring little kid who ever existed. Here, I'll give you a hint." He bounced gently up and down on his heels, the mattress giving an extra spring to his motion as he held the Holter recorder steady with one hand.

"You're joking!" Cameron felt her lips curving in a smile even as she kept scolding him. "We're adults! We're too old to—"

"Come up here and say that. Come on, I double dare you."

"Robert."

"Allison," he mimicked her school principal tone. "What's the point of being an adult if you can't act like a kid sometimes? Come on; I promise that Mum and Dad won't come in and ground us."

She shook her head—then kicked off her heels and jumped up beside him, nearly knocking him off the bed. "Betcha I can jump higher than you!"

"Betcha you can't!"

They linked hands as they jumped up and down, the bed squealing in protest as the headboard banged against the wall.

"Your neighbors!" gasped Cameron, laughing. "They're going to think—"

"Bugger my neighbors!" said Chase, then, "On second thought, better not," sending them into another giggling fit.

Cameron finally caught her breath. "Okay, contest!"

"What contest?"

"My brother invented this one." She pointed at his ceiling fan, which had wisely been turned off. "We have to jump all around the bed in a circle, touching a different fan blade each time we bounce up. First one who misses a blade is the loser."

"You're on!"

They started up again, finding the contest to be much more difficult than it sounded, what with trying to keep from slipping off the edge of the bed while laughing hysterically, Chase having the added handicap of trying to hold onto the Holter monitor. Suddenly there was a loud cracking sound, and the mattress and box spring gave a hard tilt, sending them both tumbling onto the slanted surface in a tangle of limbs.

Cameron untangled herself first, grasping at her sides. "Ow, ow, ow!"

"Did I hurt you?" Chase was instantly above her, his face creased with concern.

"No," she giggled. "My sides hurt from laughing too hard." She started up again at the weird look on his face. "We broke your bed. I can't believe we actually broke your bed!"

"Yeah, that's one for the headlines." He crawled off the bed and peeked under the wreckage, pulling at something caught under the box spring. "No worries; we didn't bust the frame, just the support slat. I can get a new one tomorrow from the carpenter's and put 'er right." Twisting his Holter monitor back into place, he leaned forward and rested his elbows on the mattress, propping his chin in his hands.

"Don't forget to write, 'Jumping on bed and breaking it,' into your Holter event diary; that's one I don't think Cardiology's seen before." Cameron grinned at him, his face upside-down from her perspective. "What?"

"You're laughing. That's what I fell in love with—the way you would laugh." Cameron felt her smile fading (_here's where he tries to get it on with you again, _she thought), but Chase didn't move any closer, seemingly content with just talking. "Most of the time at work, you look…we all look strained, worried over the case of the moment. But once in a while, back when we were together, maybe watching a silly movie or some comedian on the telly, you'd laugh like that. A real belly laugh, you know. You kind of bend forward and hold your sides, and laugh so hard you almost honk a little—Nah, don't hit me, it's true! Anyway, once I saw you laugh like that, I knew I was a goner."

Cameron lay still, staring up at him. She'd once accused him (and still halfway believed) that he'd only wanted her to fill a void in his life, a void that any woman could fill. He'd never offered any defense before, let alone an explanation of why he wanted more from her (_not that she'd ever given him a chance.) _But this confession…_this_ meant…

_Absolutely nothing_, she told herself firmly, pushing off the bed and reaching for her shoes. They were over; end of story. "It's getting late; I have to get home."

"Yeah." He didn't argue or even pout; he just escorted her to the door and watched until she was safely in her car, raising a hand briefly in farewell.

She drove away, focusing on the road, the intermittent nighttime traffic, the song playing on the radio—everything and anything except the man she'd left standing in the doorway, the apartment light backlighting him in a soft golden glow.

* * *

_To be continued_

* * *

A few words of explanation: First of all, I apologize for the long gap between updates. I was working on Chapter Nine this past weekend, when I suddenly realized that the chapter had grown too long and needed to be divided into two separate chapters. Unfortunately, the part that was completely finished is the part that is now Chapter _Ten_, so I had to devote extra time this week to finishing up Chapter Nine. The good news is that the next update will be in less than a week. 

The next piece of good news is that despite the semi-serious nature of this chapter, Chapter Ten goes right back into madcap mode. Of course, it's for the reader to decide whether or not the chapter is funny—but I can promise you at least that it's completely demented. Spoiler? Well, House, Wilson, and Chase go to Broadway. 'Nuff said.

As always, thank you for reading.

Aenisses 22-August-2007

P.S. The line, "What's the point of being an adult if you can't act like a little kid?" is paraphrased from a line spoken by Doctor Who (Fourth Doctor, I think, although I can't swear to it), property of the BBC.


	10. Bright Lights, Big City

Disclaimer: All rights to House MD belong to David Shore, Heel and Toe Films and Bad Hat Harry Productions in association with NBC Universal Television Studio. I do not make any monetary profit from this fanfiction.

Warning: Rated T for harsh language and sexual references.

* * *

* * *

* * *

**Chapter Ten. Bright Lights, Big City**

Wilson opened the door and slipped into House's apartment, instantly aware that there was no need for stealth but unable to stop himself nonetheless. The shouts coming from the bathroom would've drowned out the entrance of even a circus parade, yet he still moved quietly, hanging up his jacket and loosening his tie before making his way to the couch.

Sighing, he sank down into the familiar cushions and rubbed his temples gently. Normally, this sort of interaction between the other two would entertain him, if not tempt him to join in, but it had been a long day. Another child diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor, another stunned family to inform and comfort, another grim look down the long path that this little boy would take, knowing its inevitable end…Honestly, he wanted nothing more than to curl up on the couch and forget the rest of the world existed.

However, the rest of the world was refusing to cooperate, insisting on stubbornly and loudly asserting its existence. To his surprise, he realized that the louder voice was the accented one, and it was raised in anger instead of—

"—gave in and put on the damn tux like you said—"

"—it's Broadway, Robbie; you have to look—"

"Fuck that! Things have gone far enough! I'm _not_—"

"Stop being so difficult!"

"—going to wear a bloody _corsage!_ I'd look a right poof!"

"Listen up, I'm ordering you to—"

"Well, order _this!"_

There was the sound of the toilet flushing, a shout of rage from House, then the bathroom door burst open and two grappling figures tumbled out, incongruously dressed in formal wear.

Wilson jumped up from the couch, shocked. House had Chase in a headlock, but the Aussie was energetically elbowing him in the side, trying to get him to let go.

"Oof!" House doubled over, while Chase skittered to the other side of the room, breathing hard.

Wilson rushed forward and caught House as he staggered, finding his cane and handing it to him. "What's going on here?"

House looked up, a little red in the face but smirking nonetheless. "Robbie just flushed his orchid down the toilet. Refused to wear it even after I ordered him to."

"Fuckin right I'm not wearing some poncy flower!" Chase spat. "Bad enough to be in a monkey suit as it is!" He finally registered Wilson's presence as he straightened his tie. "Er, beg pardon, Dr. Wilson."

Wilson blinked. Then blinked again.

Then turned to House, drawing him aside. "He called me Doctor Wilson."

House grinned. "That he did."

"And begged my pardon but not yours."

"I noticed that as well."

"And swore at you and defied a direct order."

"I knew you'd have to see it to believe it."

Wilson let out a long breath, rubbed the back of his neck, and looked over at Chase. Chase was dressed to the nines in a black tux, white silk shirt, and shiny grey tie. His gleaming blond hair was slightly mussed from the struggle, and his eyes sparked with defiance.

Wilson looked back at House, who was also clad in a black tux but with the classic wing collar shirt and bow tie. "Are you sure we have to go out tonight? I'd almost rather—"

House moved up close and murmured low in his ear. "No, we have to take it slow. Move too fast on him in this condition, and he's capable of damaging you, me, and possibly himself. Patience is the name of the game, Jimmy."

"Are you two going to stand there whispering all night?" sniped Chase, crossing his arms angrily. "'Cause if you are, I'd just as soon go home."

Wilson blinked again. Chase had just interrupted _House._ Interrupted both of them—and didn't apologize or show any sign of cowering. And House couldn't seem to stop grinning.

"Jimmy, go get dressed. Robbie's impatient to get to the show."

Wilson nodded and went into the spare bedroom, his head spinning with all of the implications. House had called him earlier and told him that Chase was behaving differently since his latest coma, but he hadn't expected anything like this.

If Chase kept up with this attitude after the show, and if House managed to get his way nonetheless (as he always did), then it would be as if Chase were another dom. Wilson would end up in bed between two doms.

The day's troubles seemed to fall away from him, and he found himself grinning in anticipation. And tugging at his trouser seam, which had suddenly become too tight.

* * *

* * *

The gilded ceiling rose high above the balcony, the chatter of excited voices bouncing around its domed center melding with the mournful scrape of violins being tuned. The theatre practically hummed with happy anticipation, as audience members studied their programs or squirmed in their seats or craned their necks at the ornate décor. Everyone seemed ready for an evening of fun and relaxation.

Everyone except for one man.

Chase slumped back against the faux velvet seat, trying to decide whether disappointment was fueling his anger, or anger fueling his disappointment. Trust House to turn his first trip to Broadway into a bloody farce.

"You all right?" Wilson tapped his left arm, his handsome face creased with concern.

Chase sighed, "Fine," and went back to his tight-lipped sulk. Although this was obviously a social outing, he wasn't certain how to treat the other man: like a friend, which he decidedly was not, or a department head, which was correct but absurdly formal under the circumstances. On the other hand, he himself was absurdly formal under the circumstances.

"You're still upset about the tux," Wilson observed with his usual shrewdness.

"The tux is just the tip of the iceberg," Chase snarled, his temper overcoming his innate good manners. "I tried to tell House that we were way overdressed, but he can't be arsed to listen to a single thing I say." To be fair, House and Wilson didn't look overdressed, wearing their tuxes with the casual grace of Bogart in Casablanca. Chase, on the other hand, felt stiff and unnatural in his over-the-top elegance, like a kid dressed up for family pictures. He kept his eyes fixed on the heavy scarlet curtain that concealed the stage, studiously ignoring the whispers, giggles, and fingers pointed in his direction.

Wilson glanced at the empty aisle seat to Chase's right. House was currently enjoying a Scotch in the lobby bar, reluctant to subject his leg to uncomfortable theatre seating until the last possible moment. In any case, he'd instructed Wilson to try to get Chase out of the black mood he'd been in since they first caught sight of the theatre marquee, and, with his usual diagnostic insight, judged that Wilson would have greater success if House gave him some space to work.

Always willing to smooth over the rough patches, Wilson started in. "Actually, you have nothing to be embarrassed about. You look very nice."

"Yeah, like a prince," Chase retorted bitterly. "At least, that's what the girls in the lobby kept telling me. Oh, wait, there was that one old bint who handed me her tickets and asked me to seat her. So I guess I fall somewhere between fairytale hero and usher."

"You're attractive enough to be onstage, so you can hardly blame the girls for thinking you were an escapee from the cast. Not to mention, most of them are in ballgowns themselves."

Chase turned an incredulous look on Wilson. "Now _you're_ having a laugh at my expense! Did House ask you to set me up with some of them? My dating demographic, as he's so fond of saying!"

Wilson raised his hands placatingly. "Whoa there, I'm not sure I'm the one who deserves the Wrath of Chase in this matter. I haven't done anything."

"Yeah, sorry." Chase slumped lower in his seat, determined to keep his mouth shut for the rest of the evening.

"Look, I can tell you're upset, and I think there's more to it than feeling overdressed and bombarded with female admiration." Chase felt a tentative hand on his arm. "Robert, you know you can talk to me."

Maybe it was the sympathy in those warm brown eyes, or the fact that Wilson had used his first name, as if they were friends—or maybe it was just frustration overcoming his discretion, but Chase suddenly found himself abandoning his resolve to keep quiet. "It's just—this is _Broadway_. I've never been here before; never had time during the fellowship, you know. And I'd hoped…" he trailed off.

"You'd hoped?" Wilson prompted him.

"I'd hoped to see something amazing: a _real_ Broadway show, like Spring Awakening or Absinthe or even a classic revival, like A Chorus Line or Chicago. Even better, a serious play, like The Year of Magical Thinking, or Frost/Nixon."

Wilson sat back in his seat, his mouth dropping open. "Wow, I never knew you were such a theatre aficionado. You surprise me, Robert."

Chase shook his head, blushing. "Nah, I don't know that much about it. I don't ever go to performances; I just watch the Tonys and read reviews in the newspaper." He fell silent, remembering the person who had first piqued his interest in theatre. Back in the early days (_the good days_), his mum had loved all the musicals, singing along to soundtracks of Phantom and Les Miserables and some of the classic Rodgers and Hammerstein works, on occasion even taking him to see performances by touring companies in Sydney... Suddenly realizing that Wilson was observing his expression with interest, Chase quickly diverted the subject. "Anyway, on the Tonys this year, I saw this guy presenting awards—and he looked just like you, Dr. Wilson! Except he had glasses."

"Yeah, I hear that a lot,' said Wilson absently. "I must have an actor-type face or something. Listen, Robert, you don't have to keep calling me Dr. Wilson. Just Wilson will do."

"Oh. Okay." Chase felt unreasonably pleased that he was now allowed to address House's best friend by the name House used for him.

"So if I'm following you correctly, you're a little disappointed in House's choice of play."

"Yeah. A _little."_ Chase snorted. "When I think of Broadway, I don't tend to think of Disney's Beauty and the Beast. In fact, I don't think _anyone_ does; anyone over the age of ten, anyway." He gestured at the little girls seated all around them, many of them in princess costumes, their parents smiling adoringly at their antics. "This doesn't seem to be House's typical scene either, so I'm guessing this is some kind of elaborate mindf—" He stopped when he noticed that the curly-haired moppet in the seat in front of him had turned around and was regarding him with wide, questioning eyes.

"Are you rweally a prwince?" she lisped as she grasped the back of her seat with chubby little fingers.

"Yeah, but he's _my_ prince, so buzz off, Cinderella-wannabe." House dropped heavily into the aisle seat, ignoring the angry glare of the mother who protectively pulled her daughter to face forward again. "God, this is torture. It's like being surrounded by hundreds of miniature Camerons. I think I may die of rainbow overdose."

"So why are we here?" snapped Chase. "There are plenty of adult plays going on; what made you drag me to this abomination?"

"Abomi-bombom," repeated the little girl ahead of him, as her mother shot a glare in Chase's direction this time.

'Geez, can't you control your kid's eavesdropping?" complained House to Angry Mom. "Or does she take after her mother?"

"House," warned Wilson in an undertone, "let's not provoke another fistfight at a Broadway musical, all right?"

"You called that a fistfight? Those emo-boy Rentheads couldn't throw anything stronger than a limp-wristed sissy slap. Then they cried when I hit them with my cane."

"You went to see _Rent?"_ Chase was outraged. "And I'm stuck at a bloody cartoon ripoff?"

"Cah-toon wippoff," sounded quietly from the seat ahead of them.

House rapped the little girl's seat with his cane. "When I want your opinion, Cindy-bee, I'll ask for it." He popped a Vicodin, ignoring Angry Mom as she signaled frantically for an usher. "I didn't know you were such a snob, Robbie. Is the plot of this play really that inferior to such celebrated icons as Oklahoma? Does the intrinsic angst of the tortured hero of Beauty and the Beast ring less true than the Phantom of the Opera?"

"He's right," said Wilson supportively. "After all, a live performance is a live performance, and the energy from the actors is the same. The fact that this is a commercialized venture doesn't take away from the essential truth of the archetypal plot."

Chase stared at Wilson. "Bollocks!"

"Bollocks!" crowed the little girl, just as the matronly usher reached their seats.

House stood up quickly, shoving Angry Mom aside as he gave the usher his most charming smile. "Ah, you're here at last. I hate to complain, but I'm afraid," he dropped his voice sympathetically, "there's something wrong with the little girl in front of us. Asperger's or maybe a mild case of Tourette's. Don't get me wrong; I love kids, but I've paid a great deal of money for these seats, and I'd hate to be unable to enjoy the show." He made a wryly sad face as he leaned heavily on his cane. "I can't get out very often, you know."

The usher clucked her tongue. "I understand, although there's probably nothing wrong with this little sweetheart. It's just the video generation; these kids were never brought up to act properly outside their own living rooms." Angry Mom was sputtering in outrage as the usher gestured them out of their seats. "No, ma'am, we would never eject a child from a Disney production. We have some special seats up front, where you can enjoy the show undisturbed."

Satisfied, House sat down as Angry Mom and Moppet were escorted out, the little girl sending a last longing glance back at Chase. "Bye-bye, Prwince!"

"Randy little flirt," House growled.

Chase was scandalized. "That was a pretty cold move to pull on an innocent little kid!"

"He's right, House; she wasn't doing any harm."

"Oh, stop with the bleeding hearts, or I won't sleep with either of you tonight! I've got nothing against the kid; it's the mom who was a pain. Anyway, they're being reseated in the box seats, see? They have a better view than we do. Now shut up, because the lights are going down."

Chase stared into the rapidly falling gloom, his mouth opening and closing a few times.

Wilson placed a comforting hand on his thigh and spoke low in his ear. "Look, Robert, don't take House seriously. He just says things like that to rile you up. He doesn't mean it."

Chase let out a long breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "You mean all that 'sleeping with me' nonsense? Thank God! I didn't know he said the same sort of things to you."

"Yes, all the time." Chase could barely make out Wilson's profile in the dimming light. "But you shouldn't worry. No matter how annoyed he may act, he's never refused to sleep with us yet." Wilson's hand moved higher on his thigh and squeezed gently.

The theatre went completely dark, the orchestra struck up the opening fanfare, and Chase broke out in a cold sweat that had nothing to do with the rising curtain.

* * *

* * *

There had to have been another night in his life that felt longer than this one, Chase thought grimly, another time when seconds crawled past, when checking his watch yielded either no time change or a single click of the minute hand—but he was damned if he could ever remember feeling so trapped in one place, and that included the eighteen-hour misery of his initial flight from Melbourne to New York.

Sighing, he removed Wilson's hand from his thigh for the twenty-second time this hour. Some distant part of his brain registered that they were nearing the end of the musical—they had to be, didn't they? That damned Beast _had _to eventually stop singing and kick the bucket already!—but the active part of his brain was tied up in defending his person from constant sly encroachments.

Wilson was serenely persistent, seeming to accept each rejection with equanimity, but _fuck_ if his hand wasn't moving onto Chase's thigh again in the next minute or so; whereas House was master of the stealth attack, leaving Chase alone for relatively long stretches of time, then suddenly swooping in for the kill. Or the feel. Whichever you wanted to call it.

By this time, the people behind Chase probably had him tagged as suffering from some mental disorder, the way he would suddenly whoop or gasp, and jump halfway out of his seat at random intervals. Early on in the play, he'd hoped that they would lose patience with him and start yelling and bitching at him in true New York fashion (and hopefully get him thrown out, or at least reseated), but they seemed to be possessed of an inordinate amount of patience. Just before intermission, he'd twisted around to see what sort of people refused to complain about his apparent twitchiness—and met the eyes of four nuns in full traditional habit, one serenely making the sign of the cross above his head.

God, he hated nuns.

Hate. Hate, hate, _hate_. Hated that his back hurt from sitting bolt upright, since he'd learned very quickly that leaning away from one man sent him leaning toward the other, which was inevitably taken as an invitation to cop a feel. Hated that he had to keep his knees pressed together to protect his goods from getting sifted—but it wasn't a particularly comfortable position for said goods, and he'd seen stars once or twice when he'd moved too fast.

Hated that the ordeal wasn't going to end anytime soon, since it was going to be another hour or so limo ride back to Princeton from Manhattan, and he didn't have a king's ransom lurking in his wallet to pay a New York cabbie for the trip. So it was either ride in the hired limo with Wilson and House, or spend the night sleeping in the alleys of New York.

There was one comforting thought in this whole fiasco: things couldn't possibly get much worse.

In fact, things seemed to be getting better for a change. The Beast had finally overdramatically expired, and now Belle was sobbing broken-heartedly over his giant, costumed body. Wilson seemed to have given up on the thigh squeezing, and House hadn't touched him for the last five minutes. Maybe they'd finally gotten the message.

Chase sneaked a peek at each man.

House was staring at the tragic scene onstage, his blue eyes stricken with sadness as a single tear crept down his cheek. Wilson was sobbing openly into his handkerchief before blowing his nose.

Chase tilted his head back against his seat, his lips moving in a silent mantra:

_I am in Hell, I am in Hell, I am in Hell, I am in Hell…_

* * *

_To be continued_

* * *

Thank you for reading. 

Aenisses 28-August-2007


	11. Leather and Lace

Disclaimer: All rights to House MD belong to David Shore, Heel and Toe Films and Bad Hat Harry Productions in association with NBC Universal Television Studio. I do not make any monetary profit from this fanfiction.

Warning: Rated T for harsh language and mention of sexual situations.

* * *

* * *

**Chapter 11. Leather and Lace**

Nurse Angelina moved softly among the ICU beds, her crepe-soled shoes lending her a ghostlike silence as she checked vitals and IV lines. Pausing in the third cubicle, she watched the peaceful slumber of the man in the bed, a younger patient who was one of their success stories. He'd had a severe heart arrhythmia finally brought under control with a couple of defibrillator shocks and IV potassium, and now he was stable enough to be transferred to a normal hospital bed by tomorrow.

As she was entering the patient stats into the computer, a shadow moved swiftly across the desk. "Evening, Tracy," she said, glancing up at her coworker on the night shift.

The red-haired nurse smiled breezily as she hung up her jacket. "Sorry I'm late; it's been one of those days for me. Didn't even get a chance to grab dinner. I hope you've managed all right without me, dear."

Angelina lowered her eyes to the computer, hoping to conceal the wave of irritation that Tracy always provoked in her. The girl was ten years younger but had six months seniority on her at PPTH, which seemed to justify the smiling condescension with which she treated Angelina. _Dear._ As if she were addressing a six year old or, more likely, a senile old woman in a nursing home.

"Things have been fine," she answered in a slightly clipped tone.

"Good, because I wanted to ask a favor. I'm absolutely starving, and I wondered if you would be a dear and cover for me while I run down to the caf before they close for the night."

Angelina sighed. Trust Tracy to need a break within two minutes of arriving; dear God, did the woman ever work? She opened her mouth to point this out (coworker diplomacy be damned) but suddenly caught sight of a familiar blond figure approaching the ICU doors. "That's fine," she said quickly. "It's been a quiet evening so far; I've got things covered. Go on and run down there now."

Tracy raised her eyebrows at the abrupt dismissal but took advantage of it anyway, pausing only when Chase opened the door for her with a gallant flourish. Angelina turned her back on the annoying sight of Tracy simpering at Chase, and pretended to be absorbed in entering data onto the computer. However, the delectable scent that wafted to her nostrils brought a reluctant smile to her face. She turned around in the chair, flashing a wicked grin at Chase as he stood with his hands behind his back. "You remembered! Either you brought my favorite cookies, or you have a new aftershave—and if it's the latter, expect some huge chunks to be bitten out of that nice leather jacket."

"Have to save the jacket; it's one of the few decent items of clothing in my closet. Here." He produced a white bag from behind his back.

Angelina opened the bag as Chase seated himself comfortably in Tracy's vacant chair. "Real bakery cookies, not the store-bought crap! That's it; I'm writing you into my will. But what's this?" Frowning, she held up a bumpy chocolate chunk cookie.

"That's mine," said Chase, taking the cookie from her hand. "Dark chocolate chunks offset by cranberries and macadamia nuts; I like the contrasting flavors."

Angelina shuddered. "That's a nice way of saying 'shit that doesn't go together.' Now this," she triumphantly brandished an oatmeal-raisin cookie, "is God's own creation."

"Uh-huh. And when exactly did God decide that grapes went with oats?"

"Don't be silly. It was when Adam tempted Eve to eat of the forbidden fruit by promising her an oatmeal raisin cookie afterwards, of course."

"Funny, I don't remember the story going quite that way, especially the Adam tempting Eve part."

"Obviously you haven't read the Women's Version of the Bible. You men have such a limited religious education."

"Maybe we can do a re-enactment. Here, try a bite of this." Chase held out his cookie to Angelina's mouth. "Come on, just open up. You'll like it, I promise."

Angelina wrinkled her nose skeptically. "So that's what you said to those Aussie girls in the back seat of your first car. What makes you think it'll work on significantly older Jersey girls?"

Chase flashed her a brilliant smile, showing almost all of his pearly whites.

"Damn," muttered Angelina. "Mama's gonna be mad that I couldn't say no. Not to mention what my bathroom scale's gonna read in the morning, but what the hell. All right then, down the hatch." Closing her eyes, she took a healthy bite of the cookie she could feel pressed against her lips.

"So?"

She opened her eyes at Chase's half-anxious, half-amused question. Holding up a finger, she shook her head.

"What's wrong? You can spit it out if you hate it."

She shook her head again and swallowed with an effort. "You lied to me."

"About what?"

"That wasn't a cookie."

"Yes, it is—look."

"No…it may look like a cookie, but what that _is_ is pure sex on the tongue."

Chase grinned appreciatively.

"All the same, I think I'll stick with my original choice—less sex, but fewer calories, too. Hips don't lie," said Angelina, patting her own ample set ruefully. "You're still in my will, though."

"Don't talk like that. I don't like to think of losing my only friend."

Chase had spoken lightly, but Angelina looked sharply at him, noting the dark circles under his eyes. "Tough week, then, huh."

"Does it show that much?"

"Well, here you are, just over two days since I last saw you, and it seems that I'm your only friend…which is odd, considering how concerned your colleagues were about you, Dr. Cameron especially."

Chase spun around in the revolving chair a couple times before answering. "Allison is…different now. She's okay with caring about me, as long as I don't actually seem to need it. The moment I try to connect with her—" He swooped his hand down and brought the chair to an abrupt stop.

"And the others? Dr. House?"

"Greg—um, _House_—and the rest are having a great time trying to diagnose my dementia on the whiteboard. When they're done amusing themselves, I expect them to send me to the psych floor for good."

Angelina put down her half-eaten cookie. "_What?_ They've been saying this right in front of you?"

"No, not exactly. They send me out running errands most of the time—that's how I dropped by the bakery—but they seem to forget I can read the whiteboard. I don't have to be there to know what they've been saying." He smiled over at Angelina, who was muttering angrily under her breath. "Sorry; didn't mean to dump all this on you."

"Don't be stupid; that's what friends are for." She patted his arm comfortingly. "So what's so demented about you? You seem pretty sane to me."

"Ah, but the question is, did you know me before? Before this coma, I mean."

Angelina shook her head. "Not really. Just moved to Princeton a few weeks ago, and I've only been working at PPTH about a month. I'd heard a little bit about you—hospital grapevine, of course—and I'd seen you running through the ICU once or twice, but mostly you were up in Diagnostics, and I'm usually on the night shift. Knew that you rated a perfect ten in the three A's, though."

"The three A's?" Chase raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

"Yeah, it's the nurses' rating scale. Attitude, Accent, and Ass."

Chase threw his head back and laughed, an uninhibited, boyish peal of delight.

Angelina grinned back at him. "See? Completely sane in my book. What's the bug up the Diagnostics Department's collective ass?"

Chase stopped laughing, and bit his lip pensively. "It seems I'm not acting the way I'm supposed to. Too much of one thing or not enough of another; I honestly don't know. In my mind, I'm the person I've always been, so maybe I'm not the best judge of my own sanity."

"And that bunch of looney-tunes is? Sorry to tell you, but nearly all of Diagnostics has the rep of not believing in the Sanity Clause. Seriously, as a doctor, do you think you've done anything that deserves a Rubber Room reservation? Brandished any weapons at coworkers? Attempted suicide? Tried to commit murder? Run naked through the hospital corridors? No, you don't have to answer that last one; the entire nursing staff would be on full alert if you'd done that."

Chase grinned again. "All right, I see your point. But sometimes, I think it might be easier if I just acted the way they want me to."

"Which is what? You said that you didn't know exactly what they expect from you; are you going to make it up as you go along? And for how long—as long as you're employed here?"

"You make it sound impossible," Chase sighed softly.

"Not impossible; just stupid." Angelina smirked at Chase's hurt expression. "Hey, you gotta depend on your friends for the truth, right? I'm not saying _you're_ stupid; I'm trying to show you that playing a role is not only going to make you unhappy, it's not gonna fool them, either. So you might as well be who you really are, and damn the torpedoes."

Chase stood up and kissed Angelina on the top of her head. "How did you get to be so smart?"

"Born that way, plus I like to boss people around. Rumor has it that I was planning a prison break from the hospital nursery my first few days of life. Couldn't get my cellmates to go along with the plan, though; buncha babies."

"If my ego gets all wobbly again, can I come back and see you?"

"Anytime, sweetcheeks, and you don't even need the cookies. Where are you off to now?"

Chase patted his jacket pocket. "One good thing that's happened is I've found out I have more space on my credit card than usual. Weekend's coming up, so I'm going to buy something a little more fun than that boring load of clothes in my closet."

"Shopping: the balm for all personal slights. Good luck, and good hunting, then. Think of me, and buy something leather."

"When I think of you, I think of lace," Chase replied, blowing her a kiss before leaving the ICU.

Angelina sat grinning at her reflection in the monitor for awhile, until she was startled out of her reverie by someone dropping into Tracy's chair: the woman herself for once.

"So did you have a nice visit with our Australian mascot? Rumor has it that he's been hot to trot ever since his coma; maybe I'll see if I can get in on some action from Down Under, if you know what I mean." Tracy stopped chattering as Angelina looked up and met her eyes with a gaze as cold as an arctic storm.

"You leave him alone. He's still recovering from that incident, and he doesn't need anyone messing with him right now."

"So what are you, his guardian? I thought you were married; what gives you the right to get all possessive over single, available doctors in this place?" Tracy shook her hair in what she obviously thought was a defiant manner.

"I'm sorry; did I make that sound like a challenge?" Angelina smiled, showing most of her teeth. "I'm his friend, and I'm worried about him, that's all. I certainly didn't mean to imply that I would ever hurt someone, such as reporting their goof-ups on the job, their consistent tardiness, and failure to properly monitor patient conditions while on shift, should they make me angry by hurting one of my friends. I would never be so petty." Her smile widened yet never reached her eyes.

Tracy scowled but muttered, "Fine; Dr. Chase is off the market. I'll be sure to let the other girls know."

"You do that," said Angelina, and leaning back in her chair, took a big bite of her oatmeal-raisin cookie.

* * *

* * *

In the middle of Saturday night—well, the early hours of Sunday morning to be exact—Lisa Cuddy stormed towards her office, wondering where the hell her backup doctors were. The ASM conference was in town and, in a stroke of irony, their banquet had been contaminated with a particularly nasty infectious bug, strain currently undiagnosed. She had an ER full of puking, diarrheal doctors and microbiologists, the more energetic ones calling for specific cultures, assays, and antibiotics, and she'd opened the clinic in a desperate attempt to provide enough cubicles and beds for them all.

She hadn't expected House to answer her first page for help, she thought irritably, but at least some of his team should have shown up by now. She slammed her office door open—then jumped as she realized someone was sprawled across her couch.

She took in the fishnet shirt partially covered by a black leather vest, the low slung leather trousers crisscrossed with studded belts, the pointy-toed heeled boots that were the male version of fuck-me shoes… _Damn_ it! God was definitely out to get her. God, or more likely, House. It would be just like him to send a male hooker in response to her page.

"Look," she said crisply, "I don't know what you think you're doing in here, but I want you out. Now."

His eyes opened to reveal blue-green irises ringed by dramatic black eyeliner, their mild expression in direct contrast to his brushed-forward, Eurotrash-styled blond hair. "You paged me."

"What are you talking—" She finally took in the soft, lilting accent. "Doctor _Chase_?" She felt her knees weaken in shock. Over the past few days, House had somehow prevented her from meeting with the recently recovered intensivist. It wasn't only due to House, though; to tell the truth, once she felt certain Chase wasn't going to press a lawsuit against the hospital, she let other responsibilities take precedence over checking up on his condition.

Her random train of thought derailed when he rose from her couch and approached her with a lazy, predatory grace she'd never noticed in him before. Without thinking, she backed away until she felt the hard wood of the door pressing into her spine. Chase stopped when he reached her, placing his hand on the door next to her head and leaning in. She vaguely noticed his black fingerless gloves with the thin silver chains latched onto the leather: chains that were merely decorative, yet managed to summon up some very non-administrative images in her mind. Her breath quickened, but she fought to retain some semblance of sanity.

"What are you doing?" she whispered.

"You needed me. You called. I came."

She wondered how he could infuse seven simple words with enough heated innuendo to power a small city. Shoving that thought—and his arm—aside, she took control once more.

"I called you because I have a food poisoning outbreak on my hands, and I need all available medical personnel to help out. What I _don't _need is said medical personnel coming in here, all…tarted up!"

He flashed a grin at her, and she was suddenly keenly conscious of the dubious state of her lab coat, probably speckled with the body exudates of about fifty spewing ASM members. Chase didn't seem to mind, however, prowling through the office on her heels. "If I'm all _tarted up_," he drawled, "it's because it's Saturday night, and I was out on a gig. Lost a fair bit of green, dropping everything for your call, but I figured it was worth it. Or maybe I was hoping that you'd make it worth it for me, Lisa."

"That's _Doctor_ Cuddy to you, Doctor Chase!" Cuddy snapped, then narrowed her eyes. "House put you up to this, didn't he? You lost a bet or ticked him off, and now he's making you—Listen, I don't care what games House likes to play with his staff, but I'm ordering both of you to leave me out of it!" She moved around her office, checking the walls and bookshelves for spycams, trying to ignore Chase's warm breath on her neck as he shadowed her.

"Greg has nothing to do with this. I know what you need, Lisa, and I'm here to provide it for you."

She flushed at the knowing tone in his voice. With a quick motion, she skirted around him and took refuge behind her desk. Reassured by three hundred pounds of solid oak between them, she lifted her chin and stared him down. "Congratulations on your perspicacity, Doctor Chase," she said sarcastically. "I suppose the vomiting masses you had to step over on the way to my office were a dead giveaway as to what I need. Now get yourself down to the staff showers, get cleaned up, get out there, and start treating those patients!"

"I love it when you talk tough," Chase grinned as he ran his fingers from his navel to his belt, resting them provocatively on the studded leather. "It…does things to me."

Cuddy stopped for a moment, nonplussed by her sudden inability to intimidate Chase. It was as if the sun had decided to rise in the west this day.

"Fine," she spat. "You want a write-up? Or maybe a suspension is more to your taste." There, a direct threat to his job was sure to snap him back to normal.

He tilted his head to one side, pretending to consider her question, then smiled at her again. "Mm, no thanks. My tastes are a little more exotic than that." In one swift move, he was around her desk, kneeling beside her with his hands on her knees. "Let me give you what you want. I'd make pretty babies for you, I'll bet."

She slapped his hands off her knees. "What do you think you're talking about? I don't want—!"

"Of course you do. Maybe Greg is smarter than me and Wilson nicer, but I'm better-looking, and you're more than smart enough for all of us. A baby would be lucky to have you for a mother and me for a dad."

The combination of compliments and come-ons was making her dizzy. "This is ridiculous. You're…you're almost young enough to be my son!"

"Only if you started having sex right when you reached puberty. Were you a bad girl, Lisa? A bad, dirty girl? I like bad, dirty girls."

The lines were so clichéd as to be laughable, and Cuddy was certain that she would start laughing contemptuously any minute now, _any _minute…just as soon as his low, breathy purr stopped sending shivers down her spine.

Not to mention his fingers, now gently caressing the thin gold chain around her neck and the taut skin beneath. He moved closer, touching his lips to the thin, sensitive skin of her collarbone. "If you wanted something in a cup, I'd do it for you…but that seems so cold somehow. Creating a new life, a new person—there should be warmth in that, don't you think? I can be very warm, Lisa."

"I don't doubt it," she rasped, and wondered dimly why she wasn't slapping him and sending him out for double clinic hours. House's Australian fellow had always been ridiculously beautiful, but never before had he exuded this seething sexuality.

She was better than this and smarter than this, Cuddy told herself, and she was going to pull away from him, from those temptingly curved lips that were approaching hers, yessirreebob, she'd pull away just as soon as—

Her office door slammed open like the crack of doom, and she leapt to her feet, (_resentful_) grateful for the interruption.

"Honestly, Cuddy, I know that you can't do without me for more than a few hours, but can't a man get some sleep on the weekend? This sex slave gig is going to be the death of me!" House stopped and stared at the tricked-out blond kneeling beside Cuddy's desk. "Now that's just plain evil of you. I'm a cripple, woman! Give me a few extra minutes to pull my aching leg down the street before you call for reinforcements."

Chase rose and leaned back against the desk, crossing his arms and tilting his pelvis forward suggestively.

"Oh God, it's you again," said House, aggravated. "Don't you have something better to do? I think there're some farm animals in the next town over; I heard you Ozzies were partial to sheep. And you can quit flaunting the package. I like my goods leather-wrapped as much as the next man, but my tastes don't include the pop-up variety."

"So you say," shrugged Chase, "but I remember different."

Cuddy's mouth dropped open in surprise, and House slammed his cane down, making her jump. "Hello, Cuddy, brain-damaged fellow, remember? MRI, heart attack, ICU, and all those other pesky little details? Smart of you to call him in to work on patients; damn the malpractice suits, full speed ahead!"

Cuddy flushed. "I'd forgotten—and you told me he was fine, anyway!"

"Fine, as in doing impressions of sex-crazed raccoons? Seems your sanity standards have dropped drastically in the past few minutes." House leaned forward and touched the reddened skin at her throat. "Just how far did Wacko's Modern Life get before you caught onto him—or did you catch onto him at all?" He narrowed his eyes at Chase. "Listen up, My Chemical Idiot, the maracas are off limits to you. I already carved my initials there."

Cuddy began to protest, but Chase merely moved up to stand nose-to-nose with House, the boots lending him a couple extra inches in height. "It doesn't have to be like this, Greg. I can do you both, you know."

"Stop calling me Greg," House retorted, but Chase had already sunk to his knees and was fumbling with House's belt. Using a few choice swear words, House slapped his hands away. "Here, get up." Grabbing Chase by his blond locks, he hauled him to his feet. "What possible permutation of No, No way, Never, Nyet, Not a snowball's chance in hell do you _not_ get? And what is this shit in your hair?" He shook his fingers as they gummed together.

"He doesn't take no for an answer very well." Cameron's voice was wry.

House looked up to see Cameron behind him, an amused expression on her face, while Foreman sulked in the background with his arms crossed. "Can't believe we were called in to deal with that crazy white boy again," he ranted. "I have a life, people, one that doesn't involve running around after crazy-ass colleagues in my off hours."

Cuddy blinked and returned to her senses. "I called you in, Dr. Foreman, to deal with the flood of patients currently spewing their guts out in the clinic, the same reason I called in Cameron, House, and Chase. But since Dr. Chase is…not himself, " she continued, carefully avoiding Chase's soulful gaze, "I'm sending him home and leaving the clinic to you three. That means you, House!" she shouted, catching him trying to sidle out the door. "You have a choice between taking Dr. Chase down to the showers to make him look a little more respectable before walking him out past the patients, or leaving that task to Dr. Foreman while you cover his clinic duties!"

House took one look at Chase, who was pouting in his seductive way, and uttered four words his team thought they'd never hear him say. "I'll take clinic duty."

Foreman swore under his breath, grabbing Chase roughly by one arm. "You'd better keep your mouth shut, Brokeback, because if I hear one single sexual come-on from you, you'll be picking teeth out of the back of your head for the next week!"

Chase nodded, subdued at last, casting a last glance at his colleagues as Foreman hauled him from the office. Those sad, black-ringed eyes touched the hearts of Cameron and Cuddy but left House unmoved.

"Clinic!" barked Cuddy, forcing herself back to the present healthcare crisis. She watched as House and Cameron grabbed stethoscopes and swabs and dove into the literally heaving mass of humanity outside her door. Satisfied that they were hopelessly trapped in a crowd of yelling, puking doctors and scientists, she sat down behind her desk and took a moment to gather her thoughts.

And didn't think about Chase kneeling in front of House, fumbling at his belt. Because that image was utterly wrong, blatantly unprofessional, and…not hot.

Not hot at all.

* * *

_To be continued_

* * *

I apologize for the long gap between updates; real life has been a bit tense lately. Thank you for your patience, and for sticking with Postcards. 

Aenisses 24-September-2007


	12. Night Interlude

Disclaimer: All rights to House MD belong to David Shore, Heel and Toe Films and Bad Hat Harry Productions in association with NBC Universal Television Studio. I do not make any monetary profit from this fanfiction.

Warning: Rated T for harsh language and mention of sexual situations.

NOTE: To the faithful friends of Postcards, who might be hoping for another madcap, humorous chapter: I apologize, but the plot has veered away from the comedic this week. Humor will return, but for now, Postcards is traveling on the serious side of its drama/humor genre. Thanks for your patience.

* * *

* * *

* * *

**Chapter 12. Night Interlude  
**

The hiss of water finally stopped, and Foreman heaved a sigh of relief. He'd long since shed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, but sweat still beaded on his face from the steam that had drifted out to the locker room. Damn Chase, anyway; his predilection for long showers was just one more thing to be pissed at him about.

The guilty party finally made his appearance, a towel slung low around his hips and damp hair hanging in his face. He kept his eyes downcast as he fumbled for his clothes, his earlier exuberance apparently gone, much to Foreman's relief.

"Not those!" Foreman barked, and Chase visibly flinched and dropped the leather trousers. "Put on the scrubs instead; Cuddy said that you were supposed to look decent when you left here."

Chase raised his eyes briefly to follow Foreman's gesture, turning away to grab the pale green scrubs. He muttered something under his breath, and Foreman moved closer to try to hear him. "What did you say?"

"I said you might want to turn around."

Foreman sneered. "What is this, the girls' locker room at the local junior high? Since when have you become so shy?"

Chase's shoulders hunched, almost as if he were expecting a blow, but he turned the gesture into a casual shrug. "Fine; look all you want." He unfastened the towel from around his waist and slung it around his shoulders, rubbing it briefly through his dripping hair.

Foreman started regretting being so quick off the lip. If he turned around now, he'd be acting like the shy, girly one, but on the other hand, it was just weird to be standing here staring at a naked Chase. Gritting his teeth, he put his hand up on a nearby locker, studying his Rolex as he tapped his fingers against the metal in a display of obvious impatience. Thank God, Chase finally got the hint and pulled on the scrub pants.

For some reason, Foreman's peripheral vision seemed to have sharpened, and he was suddenly aware of Chase throwing his head back as he toweled his hair once again. A wave of anger swept through him. No man—no _real _man—should look like that: the long, graceful sweep of neck and throat; pale skin as flawless as a woman's, the only sign of masculinity a narrow line of hair leading from breastbone downward, which somehow only served to emphasize the pristine expanse around it; the thick eyelashes shuttering down over dark-circled eyes, lending Chase an air of vulnerability that was almost tangibly seductive—_Damn_ it! He was sick of Chase screwing with all their heads.

He must've made some sound of disgust, because Chase dropped the towel and pulled on the scrub shirt. "I'm hurrying," he mumbled as he grabbed his socks, then searched in his locker, finally pulling out a pair of Converses. Just as he was pulling on the shoes, he paused and met Foreman's glare. "You know, we used to be—"

"I already told you I didn't want to hear your crazy-ass delusions!"

"—friends," Chase finished. "We used to be friends, at least."

Foreman snorted. "More delusions. We're coworkers, Chase. If I seemed to put up with your shit over the years, it was only because we were stuck working together in that office, and I just wanted to get through the day. But right now, I've had as much of your shit as I can take."

A strange expression flashed across Chase's features (_hurt?)_ but was quickly hidden as he bent over his shoes once again. Foreman felt a slight twinge, then shook it off. Best to keep Chase at a distance until he regained his sanity; otherwise, he'd be stuck with the Australian hanging all over him again. That thought brought on another wave of irritation. Right now, he felt like going up to Chase and grabbing his shoulders, digging his fingers into that white skin, and shaking him until…

"So you're saying you only pretended to like me." Chase moved on to lace up his second shoe.

"No." Foreman scowled as Chase glanced up with a hopeful look. "I never pretended to like you. You just assumed I did, because who _wouldn't_ like you, the rich kid who had it all?" His lip curled. "I knew all about you from the first moment we met; I've been dealing with your type ever since I started pre-med. White boy with a rich daddy, entitlement issues wrapped up in a pretty package, and to hell with busting your ass to actually work for anything you got."

Chase finished tying his shoe with a quick jerk of the laces and stood up to face Foreman. His face was flushed, nostrils flaring, and he looked angrier than Foreman had ever seen him before. "My type," he spat. "You know _my type_, so you think you know me. What clued you in—the color of my hair, my skin? I know that in this country, a black man can't be racist towards a white man, so what should we call it?"

"You're an idiot! Racism has nothing to do with it! I had you pegged from day one by your own words. You never gave a damn about this job; it was just another easy way for you to coast through your so-called career. You never appreciated it or any other damn thing in your life because you never had to work for it, other than kissing your father's ass!"

Foreman knew that he was spewing more vitriol at Chase than he ever had before, and part of him dimly wondered why. Maybe it was because Chase was standing up and fighting back for once, instead of retreating into his usual passive-aggressive, 'think-whatever-you-want' stance. In fact, Chase was letting loose more than Foreman had seen in the past three years. He took one jerky, aggressive step towards Foreman, and the neurologist immediately adopted a defensive stance, ready to block Chase's blow and return it with interest.

Chase stopped, seeming to realize that he had almost crossed the line into physical violence. He lowered his hands, his voice low and furious. "You don't know anything about me! You don't know anything about my father or how I grew up, or what I did or didn't have to work for in my life. In fact, you're the one who doesn't appreciate what he has!"

"What the hell are you talking about? Nobody gave me anything I didn't bust my ass for! Or are you talking about House—you want me to kiss his ass for what he's done for me?"

"I'm not talking about House. I'm talking about your dad."

Now it was Foreman's turn to take an aggressive stance. "You don't have the right to talk about my father—"

"And you didn't have the right to talk about mine, so I guess this makes us quits. Your dad is…" Chase lowered his voice, "…fantastic. He's a great person. Not only that; he loves you, and he's not afraid to show it. He would never—" he paused, as if carefully choosing his words, "—lie to you."

Now the twinge in Foreman's conscience grew to a full-fledged pang as he recognized the envy in Chase's tone.

"And your mum—"

"Don't go there!" Foreman snarled, guilt dissolving in an instant.

Chase's eyes narrowed in thought. "I was wrong. I thought you were using me as your whipping boy because of residual frustration over Lupe's death—but it has nothing to do with Lupe, does it? It has to do with your mum."

"I'm warning you, Chase!"

Lifting his chin, Chase met Foreman's glare, unintimidated by the implied threat. "She's not doing it to you on purpose, you know. She's not losing bits and pieces of herself by her own choice. It's the disease: a disease she can't overcome, no matter how hard she tries." Finally, he looked away. "She's not _choosing_ to leave you." The last sentence was uttered softly, so softly that Foreman had to strain to hear it, yet the grief in the words was palpable, searing.

Foreman swallowed. "How did you know? Did my father—"

"I just know." Chase turned away and began stuffing his street clothes into a plastic bag.

Foreman closed his eyes, feeling pain wash over him, pain now tinged with Chase's empathy. Guilt rose up in him once again, and this time, he didn't attempt to suppress it. His voice was rough and unsure. "Listen, man, about your mother—"

"No." Chase slammed his locker door shut and clicked the lock. "We're not friends, remember? You don't have the right to ask me about her." He brushed past Foreman to grab his coat from the coat rack.

Foreman bit his lip. He'd caught a glimpse of Chase's profile and thought he'd seen moisture sparkling on his colleague's lashes, moisture that had nothing to do with his recent shower. He sighed internally. He really didn't want to deal with this at all—he had problems enough of his own—but knew that he should do the right thing. "Look, Chase, what I said earlier—"

Chase's back was rigid under the thin scrub shirt. "Do me a favor and just leave, all right? I can find my own way out of the hospital." Foreman made an inarticulate sound of protest, but Chase kept his back turned and shook his head. "Go on; they need you in the clinic."

Heaving an audible sigh, Foreman did as his colleague requested, trying to deny his relief at escaping Chase's presence, and pretending that he hadn't seen the man's white-knuckled grip on his leather jacket.

* * *

* * *

Daryl Pierson pushed back his chair and stretched, almost hitting the Pediatric ICU computer with his elbow.

"Watch it there, Daryl; IT is bound to get mad if we have to call for a replacement machine in the middle of the night because of your orangutan arms."

He smirked at the Hispanic nurse. "Just because there's an unfair imbalance in the number of female nurses versus male nurses, we guys are stuck out in the ergonomic cold while you munchkins don't leave a man any elbow room. Anyway, I'm leaving on break; would you mind covering for me, Inez?"

Inez grinned back. "Sure, just as long as you bring back the juicy gossip from your partner in crime. I swear, you and Tracy seem to be first on the scene with all the inside news."

"We aim to please," he retorted airily as he headed down the corridor to the Adult ICU section. Inwardly, he hoped that Tracy was in a better mood than she had been for the past couple of days. Something about her coworker, the new ICU nurse, had set her off, and all Tracy seemed to want to do nowadays was rag, rag, rag about Angelina, throwing in thinly veiled accusations about the older nurse's involvement with the Aussie intensivist in Diagnostics. Bor-ing.

Passing by the ICU family waiting room, he looked idly inside, expecting the room to be empty—but stopped short when he spied the object of Tracy's wrath. At this time of night, the room was lit by only a single table lamp, which seemed to cast more shadows than light. Despite the gloom, he recognized Angelina's stocky build, her head tilted forward as she stood behind one of the couches in the waiting room, her arms wrapped around a figure who sat on the couch with knees drawn up and head bowed. At first, he thought she was comforting a bereft or frightened family member, but the pale green scrubs gave away the figure's identity as a staff member—an identity confirmed by his gleaming blond hair.

Daryl felt a little jolt of shock—and pleasure. So maybe Tracy wasn't so far off the mark after all; maybe Dr. Chase had a Mrs. Robinson complex that would keep the PPTH gossip mills buzzing happily for the next few months. He sidled up closer to the doorway, hoping to pick up a few details to flesh out the story that he was about to tell Tracy.

Angelina's dark blonde head bent close to Dr. Chase's, both so still that they formed a tableau reminiscent of classic marble statues or figures in a wax museum. But Chase's hair stirred a bit near where Angelina leaned her head against his, and Daryl realized that she was murmuring very softly, some soothing chant whose words were lost in the intervening space. Chase's hand came up and gripped her arm where it wrapped around his chest, his fingers trembling visibly against her sleeve.

Daryl backed away silently, his throat tight. Whatever was going on between those two, it wasn't sexual. It wasn't perverted or prurient or…anybody else's business.

He remained uncharacteristically thoughtful as he entered the ICU and walked up to the nurses' station.

"Geez!" Tracy jumped in her seat. "Don't scare me like that! I didn't even hear you come in!"

"Sorry." Daryl dropped into the empty seat beside her.

"Might as well make yourself comfortable," Tracy grumbled. "That bitch Angelina told me I had to cover for her till she got back from her break. She's due back in five minutes, and she'd better show up on time!"

"She will," Daryl said absently, his mind still preoccupied with what he'd just seen.

"What, are you defending her now? Hello! Earth to Daryl! Are you even paying attention to me?"

Daryl shook himself and flashed her his usual cocky grin. "How can I not, with that fingernails-on-the-blackboard screech of yours?"

"Smartass," retorted Tracy. "Anyway, you hear any good stories lately? Maybe involving Angelina's precious brain-damaged boytoy?"

Daryl met her hopeful eyes with a limpid, innocent gaze. "I got nothing. How about you?" Propping his feet on the desk, he leaned back and let her fill him in on the day shift nurse's impending divorce.

* * *

_To be continued_

* * *

Thank you for reading. 

Aenisses 15-October-2007


	13. Gotta Catch 'Em All!

Disclaimer: All rights to House MD belong to David Shore, Heel and Toe Films and Bad Hat Harry Productions in association with NBC Universal Television Studio. I do not make any monetary profit from this fanfiction.

Warning: Rated T for harsh language and mention of sexual situations.

Note: My longest chapter yet, 6500 words. Thanks for hanging in there.

* * *

* * *

* * *

**Chapter 13. Gotta Catch 'Em All!**

_Bang! Bang! Bang!_

Chase groaned and tugged his thin pillow over his head, but it was no use; he would've had better luck trying to sleep with a jackhammer operating in his living room. Forcing sticky eyelids open, he blearily focused on the kitchen clock half a room away. Six AM. _Damn it!_

He rolled out from beneath the cheap throw, shivering slightly in spite of wearing sweats and a t-shirt. Stumbling over to his door—the object of the noisy assault ringing in his ears—he looked through the peephole. Just as he expected.

"Fuck all saints and their bloody mothers!" he swore.

"No time for that," called the voice on the other side of the door. "Too many damn saints for one. Come on, Chase; open the door."

"Go away, House. Go far, far away—and stay away, unless you want me to call the police."

"You won't do that."

"Why wouldn't I?"

"Because then I'd make sure that your elderly neighbors find out what you really do for a living." House triumphantly held up the Palowskis' copy of AARP Monthly to the peephole. "Think about it: if they find out that you're a doctor instead of a humble grad student, it'll be house calls day and night, vivid descriptions of bunions and hemorrhoids, invitations to parties with their arthritic friends—"

"All right!" hissed Chase, pulling the door open. "Just get in here and shut up!"

House strolled in and looked around, twirling his cane nonchalantly. "Love the rumpled just-out-of-bed look, Robbie; I've missed it this past week."

Chase slammed the door closed and ran his hand through his bedhead hair in frustration. "Look, can you get to the point and tell me what you want? And _no,_ I'm not giving you a blowjob or any other sexual favor, so you can leave off the sexual harassment before you even begin."

A strange look flitted across House's features (_hurt?)_ but disappeared as he gave a casual shrug. "Can't a man drop by and check up on his erstwhile lover without needing a specific reason?"

"One: I'm not your lover, erstwhile or _any_ while; two: you don't give a damn about anyone enough to check up on them; and three: you never do anything without a specific reason. So spit it out."

House raised an eyebrow, looking amused. "Still testy then, Robert? I thought you might've gotten that out of your system, especially after dumping me and Wilson the other night in favor of the limo driver."

Chase sighed. "The driver let me sit up front because I told him that I got carsick riding sideways, and if he didn't want to end the evening by cleaning up the remnants of a technicolour yawn, he'd better let me ride where I could look out the forward window. Then I slipped him a ten to let me out near my apartment, which you might've noticed if you and Wilson hadn't fallen asleep in the back." He held up a hand. "And no, _please_ don't explain what made you two so tired; I turned the radio up extra loud just so I wouldn't have to know."

"Very clever," House approved. "I think you've gotten more creative after this latest coma, if significantly less affectionate. However, poor Wilson is taking it badly; he's cried himself to sleep for the past three nights with your photo clutched to his bare chest."

"You know, that story might've had a better chance of making me feel guilty if it didn't_ give me the creeps_ so damn much."

House moved past Chase and poked at the bedclothes on the unmade futon, then rapped his cane against the flimsy frame so that it rattled. "So I see you've been shopping. Whole new décor for the place?"

"Funny thing, that. Thought I'd try to get a real bed but found out that my credit cards were dangerously close to maxed out, so all I could afford was this college student castoff. Odd, really, when you consider that my cards were well paid down earlier this month."

House tilted his head. "Are you accusing me of stealing your credit cards and running up the charges? Doesn't sound like me…well, actually it does, but I only do that to Wilson. I'm very monogamous when it comes to credit theft."

"It's too bad you can't be monogamous regarding other things with Wilson. So what is it, House? Why the social call at the crack of dawn?"

"It's not a social call. I've come to get you for clinic duty."

Chase stared at House, shocked. "You're insane! It's _Sunday_—the clinic isn't even open!"

"I had a feeling you'd forgotten about it, along with everything else you've forgotten. In a nutshell, we've got the clinic today to treat some friends of mine who prefer that they get their medical care solely from someone who shares the same interests—belongs to the same club, so to speak. So I talked Cuddy into letting me and my staff use the clinic for one day a year."

"Wait, wait, wait." Chase rubbed the heels of his hands against his forehead. "You talked Cuddy into _letting_ you have clinic duty? You belong to a club? No, wait—you have _friends_?" He snorted. "Pull the other one, it has bells on."

"I'd love to pull them both, preferably over my shoulders, but I have a feeling…" House took in Chase's outraged expression, "…yeah, I figured as much. Seeing that wake-up sex is out of the question, why don't you take a shower while I get us some coffee and bagels? I'll be back in fifteen minutes."

House walked out, closing the door as he left. Chase sank down on the futon, not trusting his knees to hold out for much longer. House getting him coffee? Being _nice?_ Not that the aggressive sexual come-ons were normal, but at least Chase could write them off as a weird ratcheting-up of House's usual harassment techniques. But_ this_—this niceness was a complete 180 degree change from the House he thought he knew.

His apartment door burst open again, startling Chase.

House stood framed in the doorway. "Oh."

"You damn near gave me a heart attack! What are you doing back here already? Did you forget something?"

"Yeah…um, no. To tell the truth, I was hoping to catch you naked."

Chase scowled, annoyed. "Well, you didn't. Now get out."

"Robbie, I'm serious about that clinic duty. You'd better get moving if we're going to make it there in time."

"I'm not going anywhere until I have a shower, and I sure as hell am not taking my clothes off while you're here, not after all the pranks you've pulled this past week." Chase ignored House's perplexed mouthing of the word 'pranks'. Standing up, he pointed at the door. "Out!"

House sloped out with an exaggerated show of reluctance, leaving Chase to lock the door after him. He was halfway to the bathroom when a thought crossed his mind. Striding back to the door, he yanked it open. House was balanced awkwardly on his good knee in the foyer, propped by his cane and holding a credit card in his hand.

"Deadbolt," Chase informed him tersely, then slammed the door, shooting the bolt home.

* * *

"Christ!" Chase grabbed the dashboard for the fifth time in fifteen minutes, his seatbelt clamping tight around his chest. "What's with all the drivers today? You'd think we were in one of those car-wrecking races!" 

"The actual American term is 'Demolition Derby.' Try to speak the language properly, Robbie." House remained calm as he swerved away from yet another driver who seemed determined to force them off the road.

Chase felt his breath grow short as the seatbelt tightened yet again. "I thought that we'd have a safer ride in your car instead of the motorcycle, but—" He gasped as yet another vehicle jumped into their lane inches ahead of their front bumper. "What's going on, House? Have you somehow managed to piss off every driver in Princeton?"

"Don't blame me for the way those idiots drive. I swear, the cars in Princeton-Plainsboro are responsible for ninety percent of all injuries and fatalities suffered by my staff."

Chase was about to demand what House meant by staff fatalities when the car that had just cut them off swerved hard into a grey Lexus ahead of them, forcing the expensive car off the road where it rolled over into a ditch. "Pull over!" Chase shouted at House.

House swerved to the roadside, screeching to a halt in an impressive spray of gravel. "Damn it, that was Wilson's car!"

Cursing fervently, Chase unlocked his seatbelt and dove out of the car, sliding down the embankment to the rolled over car. "Dr. Wilson!"

To his relief, the figure suspended upside down in his seatbelt waved weakly as he opened his window. "Is that you, Robert?"

"Yes! Listen, don't move! We'll have an emergency team here just a few—"

"That will take too long," Wilson complained. "They'll use up half my morning, and I've already promised House that I would help him in the clinic. Just give me a hand and make sure I don't hit my head when I release the belts."

Chase tried to protest but ended up doing as Wilson asked, grasping his shoulders and pulling him free through the open window. To his surprise, Wilson seemed none the worse for wear, nor was he particularly flustered. "How did you get here so quickly, Robert?"

"I was riding with House when we saw the accident…" Chase trailed off as he realized he was alone. Wilson had already climbed the embankment and slid into the backseat of House's car. By the time he rejoined them, they were embroiled in a heated argument.

"—can't believe that you left them—"

"House, I was a little distracted by being hung upside-down in my own car—"

"That's no excuse! Wait, here's Robbie. Robbie, go back to Jimmy's car and see if you can find a container he left behind."

Chase frowned. "Is it important?"

"God, it's such a turn-on when he backtalks you," breathed Wilson.

Chase shuddered but House interrupted before he could react any further. "It's a plastic container with a red lid. Go fetch, Robbie!"

Flipping him off, Chase nevertheless did as commanded. _As usual_, he grumbled to himself as he crawled through the Lexus' front window. Luckily, all loose items in the car had ended up on the inverted roof, so it was easy enough to gather up the plastic container in addition to Wilson's briefcase. He'd barely reseated himself in House's car when House snatched the container out of his hands, pulling off the red lid with a slight pop.

"Thank God they're okay!" he said with a fervency that had been noticeably lacking in regard to Wilson's personal well-being. Chase turned around from where he had been handing Wilson his briefcase.

"What's okay?"

"The macadamia nut pancakes."

"You made me crawl back into that car just for your _breakfast_?" Chase was beginning to think that outrage was going to be his default setting. He buckled his seatbelt and clutched nervously at the dashboard as they re-entered the insanity that was Sunday morning traffic.

"Not just breakfast," said Wilson serenely. "Lunch and dinner as well. I made enough for all of us if you want any, Robert."

"He only gets one, and that one only if he fetches my Reuben sandwich for lunch: dry, no pickles."

Chase scrunched his nose in disgust. "Is that all you two ever eat: macadamia nut pancakes and Reubens?"

"Yes…is that a problem?" asked Wilson, honestly confused.

"Never mind." Chase rubbed his forehead as they entered the PPTH circle drive. He brightened as he spotted a familiar figure walking towards the front doors. "Could you leave me off here, House? I'll meet you in Diagnostics in a few minutes."

"I'm warning you, Robbie; you're going to catch nasty things from diving in that particular pond." House slowed the car to a stop.

"What are you implying?" Chase was truly infuriated, turning around to glare at House. "You're going too far this time!"

"Cooties," said House innocently. "Girls have cooties, right, Wilson?"

"Yeth, ooties," Wilson mumbled around a mouthful of pancake.

Chase exited the car quickly, slamming the door shut before he was subjected to any more of their tag team weirdness. "Hey, Cameron!"

She looked up from the paper she'd been reading as she walked, flashing him a wide smile. "Good morning, Robert."

He felt his heart lift at her friendly greeting. Maybe she was finally thawing towards him a bit. Maybe, if he played his cards right, they might even—Holy _Shit!_ He gaped in horror as one of the insane New Jersey drivers bumped up over the curb and sped straight at Cameron. Without thinking, Chase sprinted towards her, tackling her into the decorative shrubs lining the walk. He shouted in pain as the car struck a glancing blow on his foot, then sped off into the distance.

Cameron crawled out from beneath him and pulled him onto the sidewalk so that he was lying on his back. "Robert, Robert!" She cupped his face in her hands. "Please don't die! You can't die now!"

"I'm not—" he started saying but was cut off by her lips pressing against his. A few onlookers gathered to stare at the scene.

She broke off the kiss and laid her head on his chest, sobbing. "I don't think I know how to love. I don't really know what love is—but if I were to love anybody, it would be you, Robert!"

"Really?" Chase felt his heart leap up. He grasped her shoulders and pushed up to a sitting position. "I don't want to rush you, but if you think we have a chance, maybe we could—"

"Wait." Cameron pulled back, staring at him. "You're not dying?"

"No, the car barely brushed me. Hit my foot, I think, and I lost my shoe—oh, there it is."

Cameron pulled out of his grasp and retrieved the shoe, dropping it on his chest. "Okay, never mind then. Let's get in to work." She turned and began walking into the atrium.

"Wha…wai…wait!" Chase got to his feet, hopping awkwardly as he tried to pull on his shoe. "Cam—Allison! You just said—what you were saying about us!"

Bored, the onlookers began drifting away, grumbling in disappointment. Cameron turned back with a pleasant, expectant look on her face and waited as Chase limped up to her. "Us?" she asked.

"Yeah. You said—" Chase waved his hands uncertainly, feeling stupid under her questioning gaze. "About me…love…you know."

She smiled brilliantly. "Oh, Robert, you're always flinging yourself between me and certain death. I really appreciate that, you know. You're a good friend." She patted his cheek and continued on her way into the hospital.

"Friend!" Chase gingerly tested his weight on his bruised foot before marching into the atrium, still muttering under his breath. "Fuck the bloody fuckin' friend and mindfuck act! This bloody day is fucked already!"

"It's only gonna get worse," said a morose voice to his left. Chase looked up to see a short, dark-haired man pushing a broom, a hangdog look on his face. The man shoved the broom behind one of the silk maple trees in the atrium and grabbed a frayed bag from the same hiding place. "Shift's over; I'm goin' home. I'll be back here tonight."

"Wait." Chase shook his head, trying to figure out what seemed wrong about the man. Maybe it was the way his eyes shifted nervously all over the place. "Why do you say the day's going to get worse? You don't even know me."

"You're the boss-man's wombat, ain'tcha? As for th' day gettin' worse—it always does. Nothin' new there." The man shuffled off towards the door, and Chase finally realized what was weird about the man.

He had his pants on backwards.

* * *

"No. And that's a final no. Here, I'll even help you read my lips. N-o." 

"Robbie, there's a lot more at stake than just your outback machismo. These people aren't comfortable seeking medical care unless it's from someone who follows their same belief system. Probably none of them have seen a doctor since the last time we held this clinic, and that's been at least a year. Do you feel it's fair to deny medical treatment to people just because of their personal beliefs?"

"They can believe whatever they want; I'm not stopping them. They can believe in the Flying Spaghetti Monster as far as I'm concerned, but that doesn't mean I'm showing up to treat them wearing wings and a thousand noodles glued to my arse!" Chase shook the bundle of yellow and black material at House, who lounged back in his chair, contemplating the drawn blinds around his office. "This has got to be your lamest attempt at humiliating me yet. Did you think I hadn't learned anything after my first few months here, when you'd convinced me that all of the doctors were supposed to dress up as characters from their native country for the cancer kids' Halloween party?"

House tapped his lip thoughtfully. "Refresh my memory. You dressed up like Steve Irwin, didn't you?"

"No!" Chase's cheeks flamed with remembered humiliation. "Mad Max. And the peds nurses didn't let me forget it for the next two years!"

"That's right, all that torn leather. Good times," House said, reminiscing fondly.

"Yet you expect me to buy into the story that you're concerned about these so-called friends, instead of snarking at them and sending them up to Psych, which is where they belong from the sound of it. If you think you're going to guilt me into putting on this stupid costume, only to have Foreman, Cameron, and Wilson lurking with a camera in the next room, you have another think coming!"

"That's another 'thing' coming, Robbie."

"No it isn't! You bloody Americans can't even speak the language right! The saying is, 'another _think _coming' and you can look it up if you don't believe me!"

"God, he's hot when he's angry." Wilson appeared in the doorway of House's office, gazing appreciatively at Chase.

Chase, at the end of his rope, turned around to tell Wilson to shut it—and stopped, his mouth dropping open. "What…what the hell is _that_?"

"That's Wilson, you moron," said House, sounding more like himself than he had for the past three days. "Hey, Wilson, Robbie didn't recognize you in costume. Betcha he gets fooled by the Lone Ranger's half-mask as well."

"I knew it was Wilson; I just don't know what he's supposed to be. An omelet? A starfish?"

Wilson adjusted the spiked yellow cap on his head and fondly patted the large foam shell surrounding his torso. "My shell is full of happiness, they say. It's a comforting character to pose as, especially if I have cause to suspect cancer in any of the clinic patients. Everyone smiles when they see me."

"Plus it has the added advantage of concealing your spare tire," commented House, poking his cane into Wilson's midsection. "See, Robbie? Wilson isn't making a fuss about getting into costume to treat the patients."

"And I'm not stupid enough to think that Wilson wouldn't be in on any scam you're pulling. I'll bet that Cameron and Foreman are just waiting for me to fall for this, so you all can have a laugh at my expense."

"See for yourself," said House, pushing open the connecting door between his office and the Diagnostics lounge.

Chase stepped inside and got his umpteenth shock of the day. Cameron was banging away happily on the corner computer, answering House's emails while wearing some orange lizard-like costume. Every so often, she cheerfully flicked a long, wandlike fireplace lighter, giggling when the flame shot up.

The biggest shock yet, though, was Foreman, with some beaked dinosaur-like blue-green head perched on his own head, sitting sideways in his chair to accommodate giant foam leaves attached to his back around an even larger bulblike structure. "There you are," he growled when he saw House. "Get the damn broccoli off my back, House—it stinks! If you can't find any other vegetable, then stick more fake leaves there instead."

"Everyone's a critic," House complained, but he did as Foreman requested, removing a large bunch of broccoli from the back of his costume.

"Hey, Chase. Good to see you, man," said Foreman, grinning when he spotted his coworker. "Haven't seen you since the coma. Head feeling okay?"

Chase felt absurdly grateful for Foreman's normal behavior—relatively normal, anyway. "I'd say it was fine, but all this," he waved at the room, indicating Wilson, Cameron, and Foreman, "makes me wonder. Has the world gone crazy, or is it just me?"

"The world," replied Foreman sagely. "You think I'd be in this dumbshit get-up to treat a bunch of crazy-ass clinic patients if House didn't hold something over me?"

"What's he holding over you?"

"A cool thousand."

"Which reminds me," Wilson interrupted. "House, Brenda said that she wanted her money up front before she'd get into costume. She also wanted to let you know that the patients were already lining up."

House sighed but peeled off ten hundreds from a roll in his pocket and handed them to Wilson. "You all are a venal bunch; whatever happened to the Hippocratic Oath and the innate desire to help your fellow man?"

"Fellow_ man_, not loonies-who-think-they're-cartoonies," said Foreman.

"It's not cartoons; it's anime! There's a difference!" snapped House.

"Yeah, yeah, sure there is. Hey, Chase, aren't you getting in costume yet?"

Chase drew in a breath. "About that…I don't think—"

"No, man, you can't leave me dealing with those loonies on my own. Come on, be a buddy and join me in the madness."

Chase hesitated, drawn by Foreman's friendliness but still unsure of what he was getting himself into. On the other hand, he could hardly abandon his colleague, especially since this was the first time he'd seen Foreman smile since Lupe's death. "All right then, but I want the same deal. One thousand dollars, House."

"Whoa, whoa!" protested House. "I already promised you a different sort of compensation."

"Don't want it and don't want to talk about it, end of discussion," said Chase quickly, not wanting House to embarrass him in front of Foreman. "One thousand, or I'm leaving for home right now."

House grimaced but peeled off the requisite bills. "You're getting to be an expensive habit, Robbie."

Chase took the money but couldn't suppress a sinking feeling that no amount of financial compensation was going to make up for what lay ahead in this increasingly strange day.

* * *

He knew it. He _knew_ it. Why, _why_, couldn't he just _once_ trust his inner instincts instead of going along with what was expected of him? The only answer lay in a bitter admission. He was a masochist, despite his protests to the contrary. He had to be—because who else would do this to themselves, coercion or not? 

Chase slipped out of the men's room, hoping desperately for something to happen—maybe an earthquake or a nuclear missile attack—to keep anyone from seeing him in this ridiculous get-up. It was a vain hope.

"Robert!" squealed a voice at ear-shattering pitch. "You are so cu-u-ute!"

Whirling around, he accidentally knocked his black, jagged tail against the wall so that it goosed him. He jumped, pulling the tail back into position. "Hey, Cameron," he said self-consciously. "Look like a right dag, don't I?"

"I think you're adorable!" she gushed excitedly. "Here, let me help you with your ears; they're tilted a bit." She reached up and fiddled with the black-tipped pointed yellow ears attached to the hood of Chase's costume. "There, that's better. Now you look like a perfect Pichu."

"What is a Pichu, anyway?" Chase asked, annoyance creeping back in his tone. "I have no idea of what I'm supposed to be doing or what any of this means."

"Didn't House tell you? No, don't answer that. He was the one who told us about your memory loss; typical of him not to explain things that he knows you've forgotten. Anyway, this is a group of people that House has gotten involved with; their passion is to pretend to be Pokemon characters. Do you remember what Pokemon are?"

"A little," said Chase. "I wasn't into it, but I remember some kids trading cards at school. It was a Japanese card game, wasn't it? These people want to be Japanese card characters?"

"Oh, it's so much more than that. The card game inspired a TV show, or anime as House calls it, and the whole fandom sprung up. This particular batch of fans actually lives the game: they dress up like the characters, get into contests with each other, adopt the Pokemon way of talking, eat Pokemon food—and seek medical care only from other Pokemon or Pokemasters."

"Which is where we come in, I guess," said Chase, pulling impatiently at his costume. "But how am I supposed to treat them? I don't know enough about Pokemon to talk the talk, so to speak."

"Don't worry about it; just do your normal doctoring, and they'll hear what they want to hear. You can throw in some lines about getting them fit for tournaments or recharging their energy levels or helping them evolve to the next level—and they'll be so happy, they'll squirt in their little cosplay pants."

"Cameron!" reprimanded Chase, but he was laughing at the same time, remembering her unexpected penchant for talking dirty during their former trysts.

She moved unexpectedly closer to him, her green eyes glowing against the bright orange of her salamander hood. "I'd forgotten how hot you are when you laugh," she breathed, grasping the black acrylic fur ruff around his neck and pushing him up against the wall.

"Cam—" he started to say but decided to stop protesting as her lips came down on his. Her kisses were as sweet and exciting as they'd ever been, the sensations just as electrifying as they coursed through his body—

"Mm-mmph-guh!" Chase gave a muffled scream as the electrifying sensation turned into sharp, sparking pain shooting along his neural pathways. He scrabbled desperately to separate his lips from Cameron's, whose expression was equally as contorted with shock. Just as suddenly as it had begun, the pain stopped, and Cameron fell panting against him.

"Glad to know that this thing works," said a pleased voice just beyond Cameron's left shoulder. Chase blinked tears of pain from his eyes and focused on a large yellow-clad figure standing right behind Cameron, triumphantly brandishing a stick. As his vision cleared, he realized it was House clad in a costume similar to his except with a yellow lightning bolt of a tail, and the stick appeared to be a two-foot-long cattle prod.

"House, you bloody bastard! You could've killed us both with that thing!" Chase steadied Cameron's shoulders, helping her to stand upright.

House shrugged and blew across the end of the cattle prod as if it were a pistol. "Stop being such a drama queen; this thing is high voltage but low current. Good for getting recalcitrant livestock, not to mention disobedient wombats, to behave without causing serious physical harm."

"I'll wombat you right into the next county, you—"

"Promises, promises." House grabbed Chase's arm and muscled him onto the elevator, leaving Cameron behind, ruefully rubbing her tail where House had shocked her.

Chase jerked his arm out of House's grasp. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't stop the elevator right here and knock you on your ass."

"I'll give you two good reasons." House held up the cattle prod and sparked it twice. "A little electric discipline won't kill you, but it might make you drool a bit and piddle your pants. Not to mention—wait, am I trying to talk you _out_ of trapping us on the elevator? What am I thinking?" He flexed his eyebrows suggestively as he moved into Chase's personal space.

Chase lunged past him and quickly banged the button for the first floor, knocking away House's hand as he tried to engage the elevator's STOP switch. To his relief, the door slid open. He jumped through the doorway, wanting to get away from House and back to the real world, where normal people related normally to other normal—

"Bugger me blind to hell and back!" swore Chase, eyes wide in shock.

"Well, if you insist," said House happily.

Chase didn't even hear him, transfixed by the sight before him. The line of people (to use the term loosely) snaked from the closed clinic door around the entire lobby, their strange and colorful costumes clashing with the usual muted decor. Suddenly, the cosplayers caught sight of House and Chase. They broke formation, charging them in a squealing, squeaking, bellowing herd, with occasional cries of "Master Gregory! Pokemaster Gregory!" issuing from the throats of those who didn't manage to stay in character. Chase saw his life flash before his eyes, not to mention various dragonlike, catlike, and bloblike creatures. Before he knew it, he was being mobbed by the eager crowd.

"Pika!" cried a familiar voice behind him in a weird falsetto. "Pi-ka, pi-_ka_—CHUUUUUUUU!"

For the second time in five minutes, Chase screamed as electrical current raced along his neural pathways, whipping through his system like small shrieking bottle-rockets of pain. Dimly aware that the crowd around him was screaming as well, he tried to flee, but his muscles were too busy jumping around to pay any attention to the relatively weak signals from his brain. Just as suddenly, the pain stopped, and he nearly collapsed, held up only by a strong arm snaking around his waist. He panted weakly, half-expecting to see tendrils of smoke issuing from his pointy costume ears.

"All right," snapped House, "get back in line and wait your turn. FYI, the next Pokemon who tries to manhandle my Pichu is going to go to the Big Pokeball In The Sky, by way of the Electrocution Express. Got it?"

Instead of being offended, the crowd seemed pleased, reforming the line while making strange animal noises interspersed with happy cries of "Master Gregory."

House unlocked the door to the clinic and gestured Chase in. "Showtime, my little Pichu."

* * *

Chase sighed and tugged on one of his black-tipped ears in frustration. "Look, if you could tell me at least _one_ of your symptoms—" 

"Psy!" cried the man seated on the exam room table. He was dressed as a large, fat, particularly stupid-looking duck, and Chase couldn't help thinking unkindly that at least the patient had chosen a costume that appeared to match his IQ. "Psy, psy!"

"I can't help you if you won't try to communicate with me."

"Psy-duck! Psyduck!" yelled the man, clutching clumsy wings to the sides of his large yellow head. "Psy, psy," he whimpered pitifully.

"All right, open your mouth, I mean beak." Chase peered down the man's throat, then removed the costume head and used the otoscope to look in his ears. The man protectively clapped the head back on as soon as Chase lowered the otoscope.

"You have a case of otitis media—a simple ear infection," said Chase.

"Psy?"

"No, it's nothing to worry about. Do you have any drug allergies?"

"Psy."

"Fine, just fill this prescription at the pharmacy, and be sure to take one pill three times a day until they're all gone, even if the ear pain goes away in a day or so. In the meantime," he caught the patient's arm as the man tumbled clumsily off the table, "be careful of some possible balance problems and call us if the pain gets worse."

"Psyduck!" said the man gratefully and waddled out the door.

Chase trudged out to the nurses' desk, dropping off the file. "Who's next, Brenda—I mean, Clancy?" He averted his eyes from her costume, a pink pear-shaped blob with a nurse's hat perched on top, knowing that even a hint of a smile at her appearance would mean immediate execution by way of radical castration.

"It's_ Chancey_," she grumbled, trying to keep the stupid little hat from falling off. "Anyway, Dr. Foreman requested a consult with you in Exam Three. Just so you know, you two break anything in there, it's coming out of your paychecks."

Chase frowned in confusion. "Break anything? With what, my tail?"

"Did I say I wanted the details?" snapped Brenda. "Keep your sicko habits to yourself."

Chase thought briefly of pointing out that anyone dressed as a large pink blobby nurse had no business calling _him_ sicko—but decided that discretion was the better part of valor, and settled for backing away slowly while making no sudden movements. It was with a sense of relief that he reached the exam rooms and dove quickly into Number Three.

To his surprise, there was no patient—only Foreman, who was perched on the end of the exam table with a cigarette between his teeth, blowing smoke towards the ceiling vent.

Chase blinked at the incongruous sight of a large reptilian creature casually toking on a cigarette. "Since when do you smoke?"

"Took it up when I was in eighth grade. Quit when I started premed, but sometimes…" Foreman shrugged. He offered the cigarette to Chase, who shook his head.

"And the nonexistent consult?"

"Just figured that you probably needed a sanity break, same as I did." Foreman grimaced and stubbed out the cigarette in the sink, throwing it away into biohazard waste. "My loony quotient is filled up already, and we still have another fifty or so loonies to go."

Chase sighed and leaned against the exam table. "Almost doesn't bear thinking about. I swear, if I have to deal with one more patient who answers my questions by repeating his Pokemon name over and over, I may be moved to violence."

Foreman quirked an eyebrow. "Feeling the need to vent some violence, then, huh?"

"I'm almost to that point—"

With one swift movement, Foreman hauled Chase away from the exam table and slammed him against the closed door. "Thought you'd never ask!"

Gasping with the wind knocked out of him, Chase barely managed to slump down enough to avoid the fist that connected with the door. "What?" he choked. "The hell's—_wrong_ with you?" He pushed Foreman away and staggered to the opposite side of the room.

"Man, that wasn't even barely a sissy-shove," complained Foreman. "Come on, Chase; don't they teach you girls how to make a fist down there in Oz?"

"What did I do to make you so mad at me?" Chase tried to calculate whether he could throw a punch hard enough to knock Foreman out of the way of the door.

Foreman lowered his hands. "Mad at you? I'm not mad at you." A maniacal grin appeared on his face. "But I will be if you don't put up a decent fight. Or are you that impatient to get right to the good stuff?" He moved swiftly across the space between them, grabbing Chase by his ruff and pushing him against the sink. "Nuh-uh, you don't get the down-low without at least a little low-down." Pressing a button on a small remote, he activated two whiplike vines from the large flower bulb on his back. The vines wrapped around Chase, pinning his arms to his side and holding him immobile.

To Chase's horror, Foreman ground his pelvis against his. He struggled ineffectually to free himself. "What are you—what d'ya think you're—what the _hell_?" Suddenly he caught sight of a small orange hood passing by the exam room door. "Cameron!" he shouted, desperate for any kind of help whatsoever. "Cameron!"

Foreman immediately released him, the vines retracting back into the bulb. "You trippin', man? We didn't even get started, and you're already yelling the safe word? What's wrong with you?"

The exam room door opened, and Cameron poked her head in. "Did you call me?" She stared at Chase's disheveled costume, his hood tilted crookedly behind one ear, and at Foreman's scowl. Her eyes darkened. "What I want to know is, why is _my_ name always the safe word?"

It was the last straw. Chase shoved past her, ripping off his hood and tugging violently on the zipper to his costume until it broke. He dragged the costume off, hopping briefly on one foot to pull it past his feet, then jerked angrily at the black fur ruff around his neck, finally yanking it over his head and throwing it across the room. Cameron and Foreman followed him, bemused looks on their faces, as he stormed out to the clinic desk.

"You all—" Chase yelled, pointing at Cameron, Foreman, Brenda, and the clinic patients, "are bloody bonkers, and I'm jack of the lot of you!"

House and Wilson appeared, drawn by the commotion. Chase stomped past them out the clinic door with a brief, "Sod off!" as Wilson put out a hand to stop him.

Cuddy poked her head out of her office as the clinic door slammed, wearing blue jeans and sneakers and with her dark hair drawn up into a red and white baseball cap. "What's going on?"

House shrugged, his pointy ears flapping. "Dunno. Something seems to have set Chase off, and he ran out after spouting unintelligible insults in his native kangaroo."

"Nice ass, though," said Wilson wistfully, watching through the glass clinic walls as Chase stormed through the lobby.

Cuddy walked up to Brenda, and the two women watched as Chase disappeared down the street. "Well, if he comes back, tell him that I want to see him in my office right away, nice ass or not." She paused. "On second thought, definitely due to the nice ass. Gotta catch 'em all, you know."

Brenda knocked fists with her as the Pokemon around them squealed and grunted in agreement.

* * *

_To be continued_

* * *

In case any of you were wondering, here are the Pokemon characters in their order of appearance: 

Wilson: Togepi

Cameron: Charmander

Foreman: Bulbosaur

Chase: Pichu

House: Pikachu

Brenda: Chancey

Cuddy: Ash Ketchum

A picture of Pikachu and Pichu (House and Chase) can be seen on my author profile page.

/-/

Notes, Mach II: Apologies twice: once for my long absence (due to many boring reasons and one good one, known as NaNoWriMo), and once for the length of this chapter. I didn't want to break the flow of this chapter by cutting it in half, since it follows one storyline (the Pokemon clinic).

There is a more important reason for the size of Chapter Thirteen, however. Another reason I didn't want to break it up was to keep the lighthearted tone intact. After this chapter, Postcards is going to veer away from comedic territory for a while and venture into the dark side of fanfiction. All appropriate warnings will be given at the top of Chapter Fourteen.

Thank you for reading and for your patience with me.

Aenisses, 11-December-2007


	14. Hour of Need

Disclaimer: All rights to House MD belong to David Shore, Heel and Toe Films and Bad Hat Harry Productions in association with NBC Universal Television Studio. I do not make any monetary profit from this fanfiction.

**Warning:** Unlike the previous chapters of this story, Postcards is now entering a darker, more serious setting. This chapter contains harsh language, violence, and **nonconsensual sexual situations**. I strongly recommend that younger or sensitive readers avoid this chapter.

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**Chapter 14. Hour of Need**

Chase switched off the cheap 19 inch TV, fed up with mindless programs in endless succession, and threw the remote to the opposite side of the futon. It skidded off the thin cushion and landed on the ground, where it immediately broke open, spilling its metallic innards to roll unheeded across the floor.

Getting up and pacing around the room, he came to a stop before his bookcase and stared bleakly at the contents. No action adventures, no sci fi thrillers, no real-life tales of survival on Everest or in the Amazonian rainforest…He reached out tentatively to one screaming pink copy of The Princess Diaries, then hastily pulled his hand back as if burned. He was desperate but not that desperate—at least, not yet.

The blinking red light on the answering machine caught his attention, so he wandered over to the kitchen countertop and stared down at the tiny LCD screen. He'd long since turned the sound down, not wanting to hear the myriad questioning, pleading, or demanding messages from colleagues trying to reach him after he'd stormed out of the clinic. Pressing the back button, he noted the numbers on the caller ID function: House, Cuddy, Cameron, House, House, oh god, _Wilson_, House, and Foreman. Chase frowned at the last number, realizing that he was, surprisingly, most disappointed in the neurologist. He knew that House was capable of any amount of mindfuck just for the sheer fun of it, and Wilson, who wasn't half as nice as he appeared, was likely to join in with House on his pranks. Cameron followed some sort of internal logic that only she understood, as he had learned to his cost (_and now it's over_), but_ Foreman_—Foreman had always been reliably stoic, pompous, and predictable. Now Chase didn't even want to answer his call, for fear of catching the insanity that had apparently taken hold in all of his coworkers.

Strolling over to look out the window, he leaned his forehead against the glass, watching the evening light cast a violet wash across the cars and buildings lining his street. Normally, he would find the sight soothing in its quiet beauty, but tonight, it merely added to the sense of ennui that pervaded his being. Nothing appealed to him, he thought as he absently watched the motorcycle pull up to the open space across the street, especially not the thought of going out. There was something pathetic about going to the movies or to a restaurant by oneself on a Sunday evening. He'd had a brief reprieve during his affair with Cameron, and sometimes he wondered if he missed the comparative freedom of coupledom more than he missed the sex or intimacy.

Regardless, he was going to have to motivate himself to do something, or he'd be stuck with bread and water for dinner. Maybe pizza delivery, he mused, watching the man with the cane expertly dodge traffic as he crossed the street toward his building.

"Damn it!" yelled Chase, finally realizing who he'd been watching while his mind drifted. Another bloody confrontation with House to top off the day! He went to unlock his front door, controlling his frustration with the skill borne of long practice. It was a cheap move to leave the door slightly ajar, thus robbing House of his triumph in maneuvering his way into the apartment, but he'd take his victories where he could find them.

Less than a minute later, House poked his head around the door. "Nice for you to leave it open for me," he panted. "Now about installing that elevator—"

"Of course. I'll make sure to petition my landlord first thing Monday morning, so that you can have even easier access to winding me up." Chase looked up from his carefully casual position on the futon-couch. "Care to have a seat, or will this be a quick annoy-and-run for once?"

House glanced at the low couch, visibly calculating how much effort it would take to lower himself down and struggle to his feet again, then shook his head. "No thanks; I'm not exactly in the mood for deep-knee bends today—or any day, really." He leaned on his cane and stared into Chase's eyes. "I had all kinds of clever quips ready, but it's been a long day, so I'll get to the point. What's wrong with you, Robbie?"

"With me? Oh, that's rich! I spend an entire Sunday afternoon being nearly run down in traffic, then forced into a stupid costume, made to play doctor with a bunch of lunatic clinic patients, and finally roughed up by my colleague, and you want to know what's wrong with _me_?"

"Yes." House had a puzzled look on his face. "You shouted at everyone in the clinic, including Foreman and Cameron—which really hurt their feelings, by the way."

Chase gave a snort of disbelief. "Oh, right!"

"Yes, roight!" House imitated his accent. "Ever since your latest coma, you've been distant, angry—confrontational."

"Maybe it's because I'm tired of being yanked around with statements like that. Latest coma, my _arse!_ I've never been in a coma before, as you well know. Plus you're a fine one to be chiding me for being angry and confrontational—unless you're asserting your copyright on those traits." Chase lowered his voice with an effort. "What is it you want from me, House?"

House shrugged impatiently. "I'd tell you, but you'd probably just dust up into another one of your hissy fits. Yes, I know you have memory loss issues, but damn it, when are you going to get back to normal? It's like…like you're trying to distance yourself from everyone who cares for you, as if you want to go back to being the lonely, alienated person you were when you first took up the fellowship."

For some reason, those words stung so much that Chase had to fight down a lump in his throat. "So that's your assessment, is it? I guess things have improved so much over the last four years, what with my becoming the subject of constant ridicule, being abruptly dumped by the one person I let myself care about, and—oh, here's a good one—getting punched in the face! What's your suggestion to continue my trajectory of growing popularity? Allow myself to be groped by all of my colleagues in the name of departmental goodwill?"

House frowned in confusion. "It never bothered you before."

Chase leapt up from the futon couch, infuriated. "I've had enough of your bloody mockery! I don't need this, I don't need _you,_ and I want you out of my place now!" He strode over to his apartment door and yanked it open.

House looked at him pensively before moving to the door, exaggerating his uneven gait. He stepped into the hallway and turned around. "This conversation isn't over yet, Robbie."

"Yes, it bloody well is," retorted Chase, slamming the door in his face. Marching over to the window, he watched until House gunned his motorcycle and took off down the street.

Sighing, he retrieved the scattered bits of his remote before unfolding his futon. He flopped down on it and tried to put the parts in the right places but soon lost interest. Loosely grasping the components, he stared thoughtfully into the gathering gloom of his apartment, trying to analyze the sense of unease that now pervaded his being. It was as if a small voice inside him kept chanting, _This isn't right, this isn't right; none of this is right!_

"Tell me something I don't know, mate," he said aloud, then switched a lamp on and bent over his task once more.

* * *

* * *

_Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang!_

The door practically jumped under the barrage of knocks showered upon it. "Bollocks!" Chase leapt up, spilling the remote onto the floor once again, and yanked the door open. "I swear to _God_, House!" He stopped, confused by the strangers standing in the hallway. "Er, beg pardon. I thought you were someone else."

"Did you hear what he said?" asked the burly, unshaven man to his two companions. "_Beg pardon._ Doesn't he have the sweetest accent?"

Chase frowned. At first, he'd thought they were a set of Bible-thumping missionaries out to convince him that being Catholic wasn't quite Christian enough to guarantee his place in Heaven, but they weren't dressed as neatly as most doorstep missionaries. The first man who'd spoken was short and balding but thick-necked and heavily muscled, his baggy pants and nylon Nets jacket unremarkable. The tall man on his right was at least fifteen years younger, with a nervous, shifty gaze under his black knit cap from which protruded a dull brown ponytail, his spot of chin hair, grey hoodie, and loose bondage pants proclaiming his slavish adherence to the grunge fashion of the moment. The third man would've been called nondescript, with his short brown hair and medium height and build, except that he had what the ER staff at PPTH called "crazy fucker" eyes.

Chase began to feel that he'd made a mistake in opening his door so quickly. He backed up, bracing his arms against the doorjamb and unconsciously setting his stance. "Can I help you?" he asked warily.

"Can he help us?" repeated the third man with a giggle that matched his insane eyes—and with that, Chase slammed the door shut. But before the latch could click, the door slammed open again, its edge catching Chase across the temple. He stumbled back, one eye blinded by stinging fluid dripping down the side of his face.

'_Blood,'_ he thought foggily as his arms were seized, and he was hauled backwards across the room. _'Head wounds always bleed a lot, but they're seldom as serious as they look.'_ At least, that's what playing football had taught him long before he'd ever entered medical school.

The other thing that footie had taught him was how to take a hit and keep going, something at which he was sadly out of practice, save for House's punch a few months back. True to form, he was already regaining his bearings but decided to let his eyes roll back until he figured out what these men were after. If they were hoping to make a huge haul from robbing a doctor, they were bound to be disappointed by his meager possessions—and he'd watched enough true crime programs in this country to know that disappointing criminals was a dangerous move. Best to let them think they'd knocked him silly, which might frighten them into running off before they ransacked his apartment.

"Aw, look what you did, Vuk," complained the man that Chase had mentally dubbed 'Crazy.' "Now he's not so pretty anymore. Red's not really his color."

"Get Junior to wipe him up," grunted the first man (_Vuk,_ thought Chase). He forced himself to stay limp as the man muscled him onto his futon in an impressive show of strength. Moments later, a cold, wet cloth slapped against the side of his face. He kept himself from gasping aloud but couldn't repress an involuntary shiver.

"Yer makin' a bigger mess, Junior," growled Vuk. "Gimme the damn washcloth already!" Junior made some sniveling, mumbling reply, and soon the washcloth was scraping painfully at Chase's wound. This time he couldn't suppress his indrawn breath.

"Ah, good, good!" cried Crazy. "You're waking him up. Cleaning him up and waking him up, cleaning him up and waking him up!"

"Shuddup already! Don't need none of yer damn sing-songs," snapped Vuk.

Suddenly there was a metallic snick, and Vuk was the one to draw in a choked breath. "'Nuff of this shit! You wanna waste time cuttin' me—or you wanna piece of him?"

It took everything Chase had to keep his eyes closed. Inside he was praying, _Please let them get in a fight with each other, let them hurt each other but not me, Lord, you've never answered my prayers before but just this once, please—_

There were a couple of shuffling steps, then a third voice spoke up. "C'mon, buddy," he whined (_Junior,_ thought Chase), "don't do nothing to Vuk. If you cut 'im, then I dunno what to do next. Never done this before…" he trailed off with a sniffle.

"Fine." To Chase's disappointment, the metal snicked once more. "Just don't insult my songs anymore, Vuk. All I'm asking is a little R-E-S-P-E-C-T, find out what it means to me, R-E-S-P-E-C-T, take care—"

"All right!" Vuk sounded more impatient than scared. "You wanna stage a musical, or you wanna get this here show on the road?"

Chase felt his shoulders grabbed roughly as he was dragged into a sitting position. Two sharp slaps across his face made him gasp and blink. It was no use faking unconsciousness; this gang of psychopaths was ready to hurt him whether he was awake or not, so he might as well have the use of his eyesight and limbs. As soon as his eyes focused, he glanced hopefully at the door but was disappointed to see that one of the thugs had remembered to close it behind them.

"Lookit them eyes," giggled Crazy, snapping Chase's attention back to the three men around him. "Are they green? Are they blue? Don't matter which, since my love is true!"

The weird comment made Chase's skin crawl, so he decided to address Vuk. No doubt the man was the most dangerous of this lot, but he also seemed to be the leader, not to mention the sanest. "Look, mate," he said in a forced casual tone, trying to keep his voice from shaking, "I'm guessing that you're looking for a profit here. I'll be honest—I'm looking to avoid getting hurt. So I think we can make a deal. I'll get my bank card and accompany you lot to the nearest bank machine…er, ATM, and give you what money I have. No fuss, I promise; I'm not trying to be a hero."

Vuk grinned a feral grin, exposing tobacco-stained teeth. "Of course yer not, Robert. When have you ever been a hero—or even tried?"

"You know my name?"

"Genius, ain't he? Yeah, I know yer name, Robbie-boy, same as my buddies here. But we're real hurt that you don't seem ta remember us—you might even say we're butt-hurt about that." The last statement provoked a series of guffaws from Junior and high-pitched giggles from Crazy.

"I'm sorry," Chase interrupted the disturbing laugh-fest. "I've been in hospital the past week, and people keep telling me that I've got holes in my memory. I don't know; I can't remember." He gave a weak smile. "So no insult was intended to you… gentlemen."

"Gentlemen!" Vuk joined in with his own guffaws. "We been wondering where you were, Robbie. So let me introduce us to you again: I'm—"

"No need," Chase cut in again. "Best if I don't remember much about you, right? Let's get that money for you and call it a day."

"He's impatient," said Crazy thoughtfully, flicking his switchblade open and closed. "I'm getting the drift that he doesn't want to know us at all—and that _is_ hurting my feelings."

"What he wants ain't the point here. We're here for what we want—and it's got nothing to do with money." Three pairs of eyes fixed on Chase, along with three leering grins.

Chase thought he'd been frightened before, but that was nothing compared to the cold terror that curled through his body in icy tendrils, shortening his breath and sending his heart racing. He couldn't think, every cell of his being screaming for escape—and before he knew it, he'd jerked away from the hands on his arms and bolted for the door. Shaking fingers grasped the metal doorknob, fumbling desperately to open it, open it, damn it, _open!_

The door swung open, a welcome draft of hallway air hitting him in the face—then just as suddenly slammed closed. Chase felt himself hauled back by his hair and thrown onto his futon, the frame breaking and collapsing beneath him with a loud crack—and God, couldn't anybody hear that, wouldn't any of his neighbors think it sounded wrong and call the police, or at least knock at the door and complain?

A cold line of metal pressed against his throat as hands grabbed his upper arms, holding him pinned in the wreckage of his bed. "Don't!" he gasped. "No—don't have to—"

"Don't have to what, Robbie?" Vuk's voice was uncharacteristically patient.

Chase fought back a sudden sob of panic. "Cut me. Don't have to cut me. I'll pay you—"

"Again with the money," sighed Crazy, adjusting his blade against Chase's throat. "Here I was having all these sweet fantasies about him, and he turns out to be another money-obsessed spoiled brat."

Panic-stricken eyes traveled from face to unfamiliar face as Chase tried desperately to _remember_, because if he could remember anything about them, perhaps he could think of a way to get them to let him go.

"He still don't know us," said Vuk shrewdly. "Well, that ain't no big surprise. Important doctor like him prob'ly sees hundreds of people a day, ain't that right, sweetcheeks? Oh, I forgot: you can't nod at the moment, can you? Not without spillin a little red there, anyways. Well, I'll go ahead with the introductions: I'm Vuk. Fixed your wreck of a car couple-two-three weeks ago. That one at your left shoulder is Junior."

Junior grinned down at him, his warm, fetid breath making Chase want to gag. "I work at the new coffee shop on campus. You left me a nice tip last week."

"And the one at your right—well, let's call him Bud. Bud works the toll plaza at the Washington Bridge. You drove through there about a month ago."

Chase tried desperately to get his brain to function. "And somehow I managed to make all of you mad at me?"

Bud/Crazy let out a peal of laughter. "We're not mad at you, you silly boy! We love you!"

"Well, we think yer pretty fine-lookin', anyway," grumbled Vuk reluctantly.

"This is insane! You don't even know me! How could you—a tollbooth?" Chase shot a confused look at Bud. "You must see thousands of drivers every day!"

"Thirty-three thousand, five hundred and fourteen that day," Crazy agreed, nodding happily. "But I still knew you were something special."

This was making absolutely no sense at all. In a week full of insanities, this was by far the most demented— A thought flashed into Chase's mind. This was the second time today he'd been held captive, although the first time had only lasted mere seconds. He struggled to free his arms from Junior's and Crazy's grasp, ignoring the knife at his throat. "Cameron!" he shouted. "Cameron!"

Vuk rocked back for a moment, astonishment on his face. "You seriously think a safe word's gonna help you now?" He waved away Crazy's knife as he leaned in towards Chase. "No one's coming to save you, Robert. Haven't you learned by now? No one ever comes to save you."

The simple, bitter truth of those words grabbed Chase by the throat, despair crashing over him and dragging him down, drowning him in a miasma of terror and hopelessness. No one was coming for him, no one cared, and it was pointless for him even to pray. Strange hands took hold of him, tearing his shirt and pulling down his jeans, and he could no longer lie to himself about what they were going to do.

_"No!"_ he screamed, but sweaty hands clamped clumsily over his mouth and one nostril, and he was suddenly struggling for oxygen as well as freedom. Cold air struck his now bared skin, thick fingers digging sharply into his hips, forcing them down against the floor. Nausea swept through him, and he gagged, trying to force it back because if he vomited now, he was certain to aspirate—and these idiots would never know it, would never know that they were _killing_ him—and even if they knew, they probably wouldn't care.

Calloused hands grabbed roughly at his exposed genitals, and he sobbed with revulsion behind the hands on his mouth, his skin crawling as his entire body tried to shrink away from the aggressive violation. He started banging his head against the thin futon, cracking it against the floor, all the time begging for someone to hear him, (_help me, God_) or just let him lose consciousness, because he couldn't take this, couldn't _take it._

"Stop him from doin' that," Vuk shouted thickly. "I'm almost—" and Chase felt his legs yanked upward (_dear God, why have you forsaken me_)—and just as suddenly released, the pressure gone from his hips. He twisted and kicked madly, hands falling away from him as he scrambled to the nearest wall, backing himself into the corner by his bookcase, gasping for breath as tears blurred his vision. Something long and straight whistled through the air, punctuated by the muffled shouts of Vuk and his cohorts. A voice roared the word _Police_, as crashing, stumbling steps faded down his staircase, cut off by the slamming of a door.

Chase's head ached, throbbing steadily in time with his pounding heart. Someone was nearby, someone making weird, keening little cries, like a child brought into the ER. He blindly stuck his hand out, wanting to shush the child (_because the crying was making his headache worse_), but found his hand seized in a strong grip as he was drawn into a warm embrace. He struggled for only a moment before he recognized House's scent, the familiar blend of wool and scotch underlaid with a whiff of medicine and sweet tobacco. Burying his face in the scratchy wool of House's jacket, he dimly noted that the annoying child had quieted, his cries muffled as if someone had picked him up and held him….

Oh.

With an effort, he stopped his gasping cries, drawing in deep breaths until he could trust himself to speak. "Gone?" was all he managed to say in a high, shaky voice.

"Yes, they're gone."

The scratchy rumble of House's voice had never sounded so sweet to him before. Chase realized he was still clutching at his jacket, as he had that long-ago evening when he'd believed House was dying—but this time, instead of standing stiffly in place, House was holding him, even caressing his hair soothingly.

_No one ever comes to save you, Robert_—but House had. He'd come back for him. Chase's throat tightened and tears rose in his eyes, tears that he desperately fought down. All he needed was to start bawling on House's jacket, and the man's patience was sure to end, making him shove Chase away—and he wasn't ready to let go. Not yet, anyway.

Long moments passed as they remained frozen in their strange tableau. Finally House spoke again. "Robbie," he murmured into Chase's hair.

Chase flinched slightly (_Yeah, I know yer name, Robbie-boy_), and House seemed to realize his mistake. "Chase, I have to get up and get you a blanket. You're getting cold."

At that moment, Chase realized that he'd been curled against House while wearing nothing more than a torn shirt, his jeans and undershorts having been ripped off him and thrown into the wreckage of his futon. Embarrassed, he forced his fingers to unclench from House's jacket. A draft of cool air took the place of the man who'd just been beside him, making him shiver. There was the faint click of his closet door latch, and a few seconds later, a soft blanket wrapped around his body, soothing him with its warmth. He grasped it close with trembling fingers.

"Police?" he finally asked, wondering when he was going to be able to speak more than one word at a time.

"Not yet," said House. "I heard the commotion inside your apartment and didn't want to waste time playing twenty questions with 9-1-1. I only yelled 'Police' as I came through the door because…well, three thugs and a cripple, you know. Luckily, those Remedial Room rejects bought—" He cut off as Chase began trembling violently.

_Post-traumatic stress_, Chase diagnosed himself. _Deep breaths. Calming thoughts. Stop thinking how close it was. Stop thinking about what might've happened if they hadn't believed House. Stop thinking how they could've hurt him as well—oh, fuck it all!_

"You're an idiot!" he yelled.

House actually flinched, blinking in surprise. "I…what?"

"What were you thinking, barging in here without the police? You could've gotten hurt! They might've—" To Chase's horror, tears started leaking out of his eyes. He quickly turned his back on House, swiping the blanket across his face and hunching his shoulders as he waited for the mockery to begin (_Are you crying?)._

"Hey," House's voice was uncharacteristically gentle, "don't get so worked up. They didn't stand a chance against Dr. McCaney and his Boomstick of Doom, see?"

The flame cane waved under Chase's nose, and he bit back a laugh. Or maybe it was a sob. He didn't know what he was doing anymore.

"I'm going to call the police. But before I do…listen, you know the routine. They'll want to take you to the hospital, and ask all sorts of questions once you're there."

"The hospital?" Chase turned around and looked up at House. "Why? I only have a few bruises and—"

"Chase." House had a pained expression on his face. "I know what they—look, it was obvious what they were doing to you. You need to answer me truthfully. Was there…penetration?"

Chase blinked, not understanding at first, and then—"No! _God_, no, I…I would know, right?" _(Fingers grasping his sex, his legs pulled up over thick shoulders)_ "I could tell if—" and suddenly he became aware of how much everything was aching between his legs. But that was only from the rough handling of his testicles; it _couldn't_ be from— The trembling kicked in full force as bile worked its way into his throat. Suddenly his face was grasped between two warm hands.

"Listen to me, Chase. Come on, focus, damn it! Look at my eyes…good, that's better. I'm going to give you a choice. Normally, I'd believe what you're saying, but you're not acting normal, for lack of a better word. If the police come here now, there will be questions, followed by the hospital and a rape kit, followed by more questions."

Chase had a sudden vision of green eyes looking down at him, misty with sorrow, pity, sympathy (_tinged with an undercurrent of disgust_)—"No! No hospital! I…I don't want her to know."

"Her?" House frowned. "Who are you talking about—Cameron?"

Chase lowered his eyes. "I don't want to become her pity case. Her cause of the month."

There was a slight pause, and then—"Fine." House's voice remained strangely gentle. "But if you don't want the hospital, then…I need to examine you myself. Make sure that you're all right."

Chase's eyes flashed up to meet House's gaze, horror flooding through him. Of all the humiliating, _degrading_—

"Stop thinking that way!" House sounded like himself again, harsh and abrasive. "You know damn well that this is a question of life or death! If you've blocked—if you've chosen _not _to remember, and that bastard is infected, you will die, do you understand? So you have a choice: me or the hospital. That's it."

Part of Chase wanted to pull the blanket over his head and pretend that none of this was happening, but the other part (_the responsible son, the doctor_) knew that House was right. "All right," he said very softly. "All right."

* * *

* * *

He stared up at his bedroom ceiling, the chill of the metal dissecting table seeping into his skin in spite of the sheet that House had thrown across its surface. Grasping the edge of the table, he pressed his fingers into the multiple holes designed to drain body fluids away during autopsy, trying to focus on counting them instead of on what House was doing.

"All right, Chase, just like before, I'm going to touch you as little as possible. You say 'Start' when you're ready, and 'Stop' when you've had enough. Remember, you're the one in control."

Chase felt the blanket lift off his waist, and gasped, "Start!" Long fingers gently probed the bruises on his hipbones and lower abdomen. Despite the gentle touch, violent images flooded into his mind, and his breathing sped up as his fingers scrabbled desperately at the holes in the table. _Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen holes—oh God, I can't do this anymore—_

"That's done," said House. "Take a slow, deep breath now; good. We're almost finished."

Giving a shaky laugh, Chase addressed the ceiling. "So you do have a bedside manner. Who would've guessed? I ought to place a bet with Foreman and win myself some money."

"Uh-huh." House sounded distracted. "This is the last part of the exam, Rob—Chase. It's also the toughest for you. Just the same as before: you control the timing, but try to give me at least ten seconds. All right, take another breath and pull your knees into your chest."

"Start!" Where had he left off counting? Oh, yeah. Nineteen, twenty, twenty-one _(the memory of fingers pressing hard into his thighs_), twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four (_pulling on his legs, oh, God, make them stop, stop it, please, STOP!)_

"That's it; it's over." There was a note of triumph in House's voice. "You're right; there's no sign of penetration. No blood or tearing; no bruising in the perineal region—"

Chase rolled off the table and stumbled to his bathroom, dropping to his knees and vomiting violently into the toilet bowl. Wave after wave of nausea swept through him, making his stomach clench and spasm. He panted between paroxysms, the tears running helplessly down his face as he vomited again and again, his stomach and throat burning with acid pain.

A cold cloth was placed gently on the back of his neck, somehow interrupting the cycle. He sucked in oxygen through flaring nostrils, fighting the urge to vomit once more from the sour taste in his mouth.

"Here." The toilet flushed, and he was pulled to his feet. "Lean over the sink; good." A cup of dilute mouthwash was placed in his trembling hand. "Rinse and spit gently—not too hard, or you'll start up again. Let it trickle out of your mouth."

Chase did as ordered, savoring the light peppermint taste of the mouthwash as it cleared away the bitter aftertaste of his stomach fluids. He took a proffered washcloth and finished cleaning his face as the blanket was draped around his shoulders once more. Looking up at the mirror, he was startled by the ragged reflection of himself: red-eyed, wild-haired, and unnaturally pale, with red fingermarks staining his jaw. Behind him floated House's face, gaunt and unshaven, his eyes serious, almost haunted.

Chase tried for a light tone. "We look like hell."

"You've been through hell."

He closed his eyes. "I was wrong."

"What do you mean?"

"All these years, even with my stints in the ER, I always thought that this was something that happened to girls who weren't…careful enough, I guess. They dated the wrong guy or walked in the wrong neighborhood at night, or something like that. I always felt bad for them, but I never thought…I never thought this happened to blokes who grew up playing Aussie-rules football." His eyes lifted, and he smiled a bitter smile at his reflection. "Guess I was blaming the victim without realizing it. Now I know—all you have to do is open your door."

"Or sleep in your own bed or run an errand in broad daylight or live your life in any natural, normal way. Rapists are predators, Chase: twisted, vicious creatures that feed on human suffering. As far as I'm concerned, they can all be permanently removed from the gene pool without causing even a ripple of regret."

This last statement was issued in a voice so tight with rage that Chase blinked, startled out of his own dark thoughts. He'd never heard House so infuriated, short of the forced detoxing during the Tritter affair—and as he well remembered, an infuriated House was not a safe person to be around.

He turned away from the mirror, forcing himself to face House. "I think we ought to call the police now."

* * *

* * *

"So you think you could pick these guys out of a lineup?" The older, heavy-set officer with the grey-streaked walrus mustache scribbled busily in his report book. The name printed on his badge ID had identified him as Officer Jaworski.

"Yeah." Chase kept the broken futon out of his line of sight and clasped his hands together, trying to keep them from trembling. He was dressed in a fresh pair of jeans and a new tee shirt, with House's shirt over that, its long cuffs brushing his knuckles. The man had simply removed his shirt and draped it around him when the police knocked at his door, leaving Chase no time to ask why or even to thank him.

"You said you'd never met them before." The younger policeman seemed to have a permanent smirk playing around his lips, his dark hair buzzcut close to the scalp like a Marine's. "But they seemed to know you, though, right? Can you explain that?"

Drawing in a breath, Chase fought to keep his temper under control. However, there was no way he could control the other loose cannon in the room.

"Let's see," House snapped, crossing his arms over the Aerosmith logo on his black tee. "Maybe they saw him once somewhere and chose him for a target. Maybe they're psychopaths who pick a new victim every week. Maybe their mommies didn't love them enough. I don't know; I guess I should try to bring them in for questioning about their motives, among other things. Oh, wait, isn't that your job?"

"No need to get testy," said Jaworski as his partner scowled at House. "We're just wrapping up the final details for the report. Dr. Chase, if there's anything else you can remember about them, it'll make it that much easier to find them."

Chase repressed a sigh. "I've already told you everything they said. If I think of anything else, I'll call you, I promise."

"Maybe your memory just needs a little push," said the young cop. "You said you'd had an accident earlier this week that caused some memory loss. Maybe you don't remember meeting these men, but they remember you. Is there anywhere you go, let's say on the weekends, where you might've run into them? Like a bar…or a club?" His eyes narrowed as he looked Chase up and down.

"Davis," said his partner in a low undertone.

Chase felt a rush of blood to his face. This was hardly the first time he'd been confronted with this assumption about his sexual orientation, but tonight it feltespecially frustrating, considering what he'd just undergone. It took everything he had not to nail this smartassed son-of-a-bitch with a right hook. "I don't go to clubs or bars," he said tightly. "I go to work, and I come home. That's it."

Davis smirked. "I get the feeling you're not being straight with me."

Chase saw movement out of the corner of his eye and made a quick sidestep, blocking House so that he stumbled against him. The last thing they needed was to get arrested for assaulting an officer of the law. Cold fury rose in Chase, muted by the numbness that had taken hold of him ever since the aftermath of House's exam, and for once, the words flowed smoothly instead of being choked back in his throat. "I'll answer your bloody insinuations, Officer Davis. I don't pick up men in bars, because I don't pick up men anywhere. Furthermore, I fail to understand your point. Either you think I'm lying about my attackers to protect them or to cover something up—which begs the question of why I bothered to call the police at all—or you have a personal reason for questioning my orientation. In that case, I have to say sorry, but I'm not interested."

Now it was Davis's turn to flush furiously, and he took a step toward Chase.

"Davis!" Jaworski grabbed his partner's arm. "Go out to the cruiser and radio that we're done here. Now!"

With one last glare at Chase, Davis turned and stormed out of the apartment. Jaworski removed his hat and twirled it between his fingers in an embarrassed manner. "Uh, sorry about that. Davis gets…well, he's a handful sometimes. He doesn't mean any real harm, though." He smiled sheepishly at Chase. "I know you said those guys busted in to rob you, but…listen, I got a son about your age. I'm lookin' at those marks on you, and I figure that if they had tried anything else—well, my boy would be likely to say the same sorta thing to the cops. Male pride and all that. The problem is, if you're hiding things, it just makes it that much harder for us to find these punks."

"Very good," approved House, moving around Chase to stand nose-to-nose with Jaworski. "Good cop, bad cop; nice to see the old classical routine's still in use." He tilted his head inquisitively. "The thing is, I seem to remember that technique being used on crime suspects, not victims. So what exactly are you and your partner accusing Dr. Chase of doing?"

"We're not accusing him of anything, sir," said Jaworski, dropping the warmth in favor of cool professionalism. "We're just doing our jobs."

"For the sake of argument, let's assume the victim in this case is telling the truth. What are the police going to do about this?"

"Try to find the perpetrators, of course."

"But what are you going to do to protect Dr. Chase in the meantime?"

Officer Jaworski pulled at his impressive moustache. "We'll probably have the neighborhood squad cars cruise past his building a couple more times a day; keep a lookout for suspicious behavior."

"Excellent!" House's enthusiastic tone made Chase cringe inwardly as he recognized the setup for one of his sarcastic slam-dunks. "That'll make him feel a lot safer, I'll bet, knowing that if the attackers are loitering outside his apartment for hours, hopefully wearing black masks and growling suspiciously, the boys in blue will be sure to notice them on their twice-a-day pass by. On the other hand, if the attackers manage to get inside his building in the hours_ between_ one of those two passes, I guess Dr. Chase is just shit out of luck, right?"

"Look, Dr. House—"

"No, you look," snapped House. "Maybe you think every citizen who's not a cop is, by default, an idiot. I think that of everyone who's not a doctor, so that make us even. Between us idiots, it's pretty obvious that the only way Dr. Chase is ever going to be safe again is if you find those lowlifes and lock them away. So I think you can take his word as given when he says he's told you everything he knows about them."

"Fair enough," said Jaworski, replacing his hat on his head. "I'll file the report right away. Dr. Chase…"

"I'll be at the station first thing in the morning to look through the mugshots," Chase said quickly, hoping to prevent another hostile exchange between House and the police officer.

"Good." Nodding politely at the two doctors, Jaworski made his exit.

Chase wished briefly for a couch or even a chair to sink down onto, but the thugs had destroyed the one decent piece of furniture in his threadbare apartment. Looking over at House, he noticed the older doctor leaning wearily on his cane, even more in need of a respite than he was. Waves of guilt coursed through him. "House, I…Listen, thanks so much." Chase ran his hands through his hair in frustration. "I can't think straight enough to find the words, but I know I really owe you—"

House waved a hand impatiently. "Forget it. The question is, what are you going to do now?"

Looking bleakly at his trashed living room, Chase shrugged. "I can't stay here, that's for certain. If those blokes decide to come back…. I think I'll pack a few things and check into a hotel."

"With your maxed-out credit cards." House peered at Chase's despairing expression. "Don't be stupid, Chase. You're coming home with me."

A weird feeling swept through Chase, and his throat tightened. Turning away from House, he shook his head. "You don't have to—"

"Yes, I do. Just shut up and do as your boss says. Pack some things while I see if you have any worthwhile liquor on the premises."

"In the fridge," said Chase as he walked over to the coat rack and checked the pockets of his leather jacket for his cell phone. "Real German beer, not the usual American swill." He held up his phone for House to see. "I have to make a few calls, see if I can get my credit line extended. I'll pack while I'm calling, and meet you out here."

House grunted in agreement, already rummaging in the refrigerator for the promised beer. Chase looked at him for one second, then headed into his bedroom, closing the door as he hit a speed dial number on his phone.

"Hi, it's me. No, it's okay—yeah—fine, apology accepted. Um, listen, Foreman, I have a favor to ask.

"I need to know how to get a gun."

* * *

_To be continued_

* * *

Disclaimer: The two police officers depicted in this chapter were fictional denizens of the "fanfic universe," and as such, were not meant to depict the actions or policies of real police officers of Princeton and Plainsboro in New Jersey. 

Note: Thank you for making it to the end of this difficult chapter. I've struggled with it for several weeks, so I appreciate you giving it a chance. I would also like to warmly thank Kryssa for her wonderful beta job, solicited at the last minute and carried out with great insight and skill. I owe you lunch, girlfriend!

There is a very fine line between drama and melodrama, and I've spent many sleepless hours trying to stay on the right side of that line. I have no idea if I succeeded, but I gave it my best effort, at any rate.

Thank you once again for reading.

Aenisses (11-March-2008)


	15. The First Postcard

Disclaimer: All rights to House MD belong to David Shore, Heel and Toe Films, and Bad Hat Harry Productions in association with NBC Universal Television Studio. I do not make any monetary profit from this fanfiction.

Dedication: This chapter is dedicated to Poeia and quack3790, for their constant encouragement and the occasional much-needed nudge in the right direction.

* * *

.

* * *

**Chapter 15. The First Postcard**

The man's silhouette rushed at him, closing fast at fifty, forty, thirty feet. Adrenaline surged through Chase as he lifted the 9mm Glock in a smooth, practiced motion and fired off a barrage of shots, the muted thunks of each explosion matching the recoil reverberating through his wrist and arm.

Releasing his pent-up breath, he slammed in another preloaded magazine, then reached with his free hand—only to have his arm blocked by a familiar flame-tattooed cane. The cane jabbed at a button in the stall, causing the silhouette to sail forward on its line. A long arm reached out and snatched the paper target, as Chase clicked the safety on the Glock and removed the magazine along with his earmuffs and shooting glasses.

"Not bad." House's voice dripped with sarcasm as he examined the target. "Nine shots total: four went wide, three straight to the cardio-thoracic region, two to the head. A nice, decisive way to put a nail in the coffin of _primum non nocere; _who the hell ever listens to Hippocrates nowadays, anyway? Except for those pesky doctors, of course—oh, wait."

Chase recognized that target practice was over for now, so he pointed the gun down toward one corner of the stall and unchambered the last round. Producing a black leather case from under the small shelf, he selected a few implements and started cleaning the handgun, not bothering to meet House's gaze. "Sneaking up on someone at a shooting range: that's a new level of reckless, even for you. What do you have planned for the afternoon—sticking a fork in a toaster?"

House was, as usual, unabashed. "Well, see, that's kind of why I'm here. I have this interesting little thing going on for the rest of the day—it's called _work._ So I dropped by to see if you have any interest in actually earning your paycheck, or is the thrill of disintegrating paper targets too seductive?"

"It's my lunch hour." Chase peered through the barrel of the gun, checking for residue. Satisfied, he placed it in its recessed spot in the case and snapped it closed. "I'm on my own time for the next twenty minutes; you can start docking me after that."

"Speaking of docking, that's a pretty impressive weapon you have there. A rental?"

"No." Chase didn't elaborate.

"Then I have to wonder how you got it. If I remember my New Jersey firearms laws correctly, it should take several weeks, if not months, for an alien to get clearance to purchase a gun. By alien, I mean my favorite Australian, of course, not My Favorite Martian."

"Didn't purchase it. Borrowed it from a friend." Chase zipped up his leather jacket and tried to move past House but was stopped by a strong grip on his arm. He met House's gaze with a carefully crafted expression of patient exasperation. "Nothing illegal about that, and before you ask: yes, I have a permit."

"So Foreman's an easier touch than I thought. No, don't try to deny it; you don't have that large a circle of friends, and when you factor in the ones who pack heat, that leaves just the Bro from the Hood."

Chase tried to jerk his arm from House's grasp, but the man refused to release him. "Interesting factoid for you, Chase: in the event of a violent crime, statistically the odds are in favor of the gun owner being shot by his own weapon."

The casual mask dropped, and Chase met his gaze with one that had gone distant and cold. "Statistically, there are worse ways to die."

They stood there for one, two, three heartbeats, caught in a staring contest that seemed juvenile at first, but—

House released Chase's arm and shifted his eyes away. "Go home, Chase."

"I thought you wanted me back at work."

"I changed my mind. We don't have a case, and I don't feel like—Go home and do whatever it is wombats do on their afternoons off." House's voice softened into weariness. "Just go home."

Chase stared down at his feet, ashamed of the fear that drove him to ask the next question. "Do you mean my place, or—?"

"I mean _our_ place. Damn it, Chase, when are you going to—" House broke off, visibly controlling his temper as he tapped his cane angrily against the floor. "Forget it. I'll see you tonight." He left the stall abruptly, moving with his characteristic swiftness.

All the same, Chase waited another minute before paying for his session and heading out.

* * *

The old key turned easily in the lock, and the door swung open to admit Chase to House's apartment. Afternoon sunlight filtered through the blinds, casting shining stripes across the polished wood floor, before climbing up the piano bench to travel across the glossy surface of the baby grand piano tucked in its nook.

Despite everything, including being basically dismissed from his job for the day, Chase couldn't help feeling tension ease from his shoulders at the simple beauty and comfort of the flat. He still couldn't believe House owned a place this nice, even nicer than what he recalled from his two previous invasions. Of course, on those occasions—during the fiasco of House's faked brain cancer—terror at being discovered had kept him from taking more than a cursory glance around the premises. All the same, he'd been surprised to find that House lived in classier digs than the expected bachelor flat.

Setting his messenger bag quietly on the couch and shrugging off his jacket, he walked over to the mahogany bookshelves to run a reverent finger across the leather spines of countless books, obscure novels interspersed between medical tomes both modern and classic. Although the exact reasoning behind House's shelving system escaped him, he knew there had to be method in his madness—he'd personally witnessed House returning a novel inscribed in some indecipherable language (_Urdu, perhaps?)_ to the exact spot from which Chase had removed it hours before.

A thump resounded from the back of the apartment, followed by distinct footsteps. Chase's head snapped up, and he backed away quickly, knocking against the hall closet door. Panicked, he gazed across the room at the messenger bag concealing his gun—unloaded and as unreachable to him in these few seconds as if it were across the galaxy. The footsteps stopped at the noise, then quickened, approaching the living room where Chase stood. Keeping his eye on the doorway, Chase pulled open the closet door, reaching desperately for something, _anything_ to defend himself with, his hand closing convulsively around one of House's spare canes. Holding the cane up before him, he began retreating toward the front door, his heart in his throat as a man's shadow slid across the polished boards…

"Wilson!" Chase lowered the cane, seized with conflicting feelings of relief, anger, and shock.

"What are you doing here?" Both men spoke over each other at the same time.

Remembering that he was essentially a guest in Wilson's home, Chase answered first. "I…uh…House sent me home for the day."

Wilson raised his eyebrows but refrained from asking why. "Oh. I hadn't expected anyone to be here, so…" he trailed off, obviously uncomfortable.

"Did your department head send you home as well?" quipped Chase as he replaced the cane in the closet.

Wilson gave the joke no more than the half smile it deserved. "No…well, I guess the answer would be yes, in strict fact. I had some things to do…errands…" he trailed off at Chase's inquisitive look. "This is stupid. You're going to find out soon enough, so I might as well tell you. Would you mind following me?" He noticed Chase's slightly panicked glance towards Wilson's bedroom. "I'm not going to touch you, Robert."

"I know that." Chase flushed, embarrassed by his transparency.

"I wish you did." Wilson turned away and headed back to his bedroom.

The first thing that struck Chase was the sight of Wilson's normally neat-as-a-pin bedroom in disarray. The next was the fully packed suitcase on the bed.

"Are you going on a trip?"

"In a way. I'm leaving for a while, Robert. Don't worry—I've made enough casseroles and other dinners to last you and Greg for at least a week; they're stored in the freezer with a label for each day. Make sure that Greg doesn't steal your share or switch the dishes he doesn't like for doubles of the ones he does. The man has to eat green vegetables sometime, or he's going to lose his teeth from scurvy."

Chase frowned, seeing past Wilson's light, humorous tone. "So you're going to be gone for more than a week? How long?"

Wilson's smile faded. "For however long it takes."

"However long what takes?"

There was a studied pause. "Until you stop being afraid of me."

"I'm _not_—"

"Yes, you are." Wilson's tone softened. "Don't lie to me, Robert. Whatever else has changed between us, I'd like to think we can still be honest with one another. It doesn't take a world-class diagnostician to read the writing on this particular whiteboard. You jump whenever I enter the room; you flinch if I place a hand on your shoulder; you even startle if you walk into a room that I'm already sitting in—"

"It's not—I'm sorry. It's been a tough week for me; I'm sure House told you the details. I don't mean to…I'm just not used to having people—" Chase waved his hands in a helpless gesture, unable to find the right words.

"Care about you?

"_Around._ I'm not used to having people around me at all. I'm usually pretty solitary. So it's not you in particular—"

"But Greg doesn't make you uncomfortable, does he?" Wilson laughed wryly. "It's hard not to take it personally when you seem to relax only if he's in the room."

"He rescued me, Wilson. If not for him, they would've…I don't like to think about what they would've done. And he seems to have no expecta—" Chase stopped, realizing his mistake.

"But I do, right?" Wilson gripped Chase's shoulder, and Chase forced himself not to flinch away. "Robert, if I seem to have expectations, it's only because I want to help you. This memory loss is hard on us, too, you know. Every other time you've been assaulted, I've been there for you—holding you, comforting you—and it kills me now to have you shut me out!"

Chase wrenched violently out of Wilson's grasp. "What the hell are you talking about? What do you mean, every other time? This has never happened to me before!" He firmly pushed back the nagging whispers in his mind (_seminary school, first year medical residency—but those times were different, because groping wasn't sexual assault, was it? Was it?_). "Why do you keep saying that?" he shouted, inexplicable rage boiling over. "I'm not some perpetual victim, some_ thing_ that men play with, some bloody _toy!"_

"Of course you're not, Robert." Wilson's eyes were sadder than Chase had ever seen them as he held up his hands in a calming gesture. "I'm sorry for upsetting you. It's probably for the best that I leave now." He retrieved his suitcase from his bedroom and brushed past Chase as he headed toward the door. "I left Greg a note, so you won't have to explain anything to him—"

"Wait." Chase reached out and, gritting his teeth, grasped Wilson's arm. "This is wrong. I may not remember things the way you and House do, but the one thing I feel certain of is this is your home. I shouldn't be driving you out; I'm the one who should leave."

"No! Don't you dare compromise your safety by leaving this place! Don't you even think about it, do you hear me?"

Chase blinked at Wilson's sharp, authoritative tone, one he'd never heard directed at him outside of the hospital.

Wilson passed a hand over his face, wincing slightly. "I'm sorry. I keep forgetting—listen, I'm not ordering you; I'm asking. Please stay here with Greg, at least until things are resolved. It would…I'd feel a lot better knowing you were safe. Please do this, if not for yourself, then for me."

Not knowing what to say, Chase merely nodded dumbly, releasing Wilson's arm. With one last wry smile, Wilson walked through the door, leaving him standing alone.

Chase moved aimlessly through the apartment, finally settling on the piano bench, his thoughts spinning as chaotically as the dust motes in the shafts of sunlight. Finally, he got up, grabbing his leather jacket and penning a short note to House. This place that had seemed such a haven just a few minutes ago now felt oppressive, heavy with the presence of the two men whose lives he had disrupted along with his own.

He walked to the door, then looked back at his messenger bag on the couch, thinking about the weapon concealed within. Thinking about lifting it, aiming it, firing point blank…

Turning around, he walked out without another backward glance.

* * *

Chase slowly paged through the leaves of a geology text, his fingers skating over the diagrams and photos as his mind wandered from subject to subject, always returning stubbornly to the same place—_what should I do, what should I do?—_until he forced it away again.

The sun had long since set, its brilliant colors no longer staining the table at which he sat. Instead, there was only darkness and his own pale reflection staring back at him from the glass walls of the atrium. The few Princeton undergrads who had shared the library with him for the past few hours had gone, probably rushing to catch the last serving in their dorms or share a pizza in the coziness of their rooms.

He'd always loved the quiet, reflective peace of university libraries, the low murmur of students discussing some salient new fact, the occasional quickly-stifled burst of laughter. Princeton didn't have a medical school and thus no medical school library, but that didn't bother him. Medical school libraries were quieter, flavored with the intensity of med students desperately looking up source articles or studying for the boards. Chase preferred the more relaxed atmosphere of the undergraduate library, especially the atrium in the Firestone library, the high glass ceiling making it a particularly lovely place to linger.

However, it was becoming more apparent by the second that he'd find no answers here. Restless once again, he pushed back his chair, hitting into something soft.

"Oof!" said a girl's voice behind him.

Chase leapt up, grasping the arm of the brown-haired girl who now leaned against the offending piece of furniture. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry! I had no idea you were behind me. Are you injured?"

"Nothing 'cept my dignity. Don't worry about it; my own damn fault." She grinned at him above her wire-rimmed glasses. "That's what I get for sneaking up on you. I wanted to see if that book was written in Braille…" she leaned around him, peering at the text on the table, "…nope, it's not. So since you don't seem to be legally blind, I can only guess that you're an alien." She waved her fingers in his confused face. "You've been reading that book with your fingertips for the past hour while staring out the window. So either you're a space alien with eyeballs in your digits, or you're not interested in geology at all."

Chase smiled ruefully. "You caught me out. No, not about being a space alien—the geology thing."

"Damn," she snapped her fingers in mock chagrin. "And here I was getting ready to net a huge payoff from the tabloids, get my student loans all taken care of. I don't suppose you could produce a couple of antennae from your head, pose for some pictures?"

He shook his head regretfully.

"Well, that's that. All the same, I'd like to take you out for a cuppa, welcome you to foreign shores and all that. I guess Melbourne is as alien as I'm likely to encounter around here."

Chase laughed, startled. "How did you know I'm from Melbourne?"

"Recognized the accent. I spent a year in Melbourne during undergrad; convinced my folks that I desperately needed some in-depth research into Australian geology. Luckily, they bought into it, and I had one of my best years ever, researching the geological strata of the beach and shoreline." She held her arms out, pantomiming a surfer. "I miss it like hell; can only imagine how you feel, stuck here in the flatlands of NJ."

"I'm surviving. But listen, I'll take you up on that cuppa, but only if you let me pay."

"Male chauvinism is not something that earns points with me," she said severely. "Unless, of course, it means you pay for everything; then I let my inner radical feminist take a quick nap. Let's go. Oh, by the way, the name's Beryl, Beryl Phillips, in case I get run over by a truck outside and the reporters want to know."

"I'll keep it in mind," said Chase gravely as he followed her out of the library. "Mine is Robert Chase, by the way."

"Far too normal," complained Beryl. "You need a pair of geologists as parents, who'll saddle you with the moniker of a second-rate gemstone. 'Course, as I always tell myself, it could've been worse: they could've named me Tourmaline or Feldspar or Quartz. In that case, though, I would've never made it alive out of junior high."

They ended up at a campus coffee shop a few blocks away, where they snagged a table while the barista harangued them cheerfully for choosing tea over espresso. Beryl was what Chase considered to be the typical American university girl: not classically beautiful but sturdily attractive with an open, cheerful face, a clever wit, and a way of setting you at ease.

They traded anecdotes about Melbourne, surfing, and their undergraduate days, as the evening business trickled away until they were one of only two couples left in the shop. Chase felt the familiar restlessness take hold of him once more, and resisted looking at his watch.

Beryl leaned back, her expression now serious. "So."

"So?"

"So are you gonna tell me what's weighing so heavily on you, or do I have to take out the dental instruments and start pulling teeth? I warn you, you won't look as pretty with a few gaps in that pearly smile."

Chase tried to smile, but it failed to reach his eyes. "What makes you think something's wrong?"

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe the fact that you spent hours in the library fake-reading geology texts, when I know damn well you're not a student in the department, graduate or undergraduate. Maybe because you have the saddest smile I've seen in the past five years. Or maybe," she paused, choosing her words carefully, "maybe I have this funny way of sensing things."

"What things?" he asked, drawn in despite himself.

Beryl looked up at him, her eyes troubled. "I sense depression. I sense anger. I sense fear bordering on terror so intense, only your tremendous strength of will keeps you from going over the edge." Her voice dropped. "I sense that strength of will eroding by the hour."

Chase rocked back in his chair, shocked. "How can you—"

"I don't know." She shook her head. "I've never known why or how I feel these things. It's not like I talked it over with anyone; my parents barely acknowledge biology as a valid science, let alone," she wiggled her fingers near her head, "alien brainwaves. So mostly I keep it to myself. But once in a while, someone like you comes along, and…it's like preventing a car crash, you know? I can't _not _get involved."

"So there's a car crash in my future?" he joked weakly.

Beryl didn't smile back. "In a manner of speaking. Look," she leaned forward, "I don't want to scare you, but this can go either way, you know? The one thing I'll tell you for certain is that violence is never the answer."

Chase kept himself from flinching, but he'd bet good money Beryl was seeing the Glock in all its black malevolence as it forced its way to the forefront of his mind. A flush of shame crept across his face.

"Give me your hand," she ordered, her tone warm instead of judgmental. "Come on, don't be a baby."

He did as ordered, feeling the warmth of her grip spread through him. She sat still, looking at their linked hands as her thumb ran absently over his knuckles. Finally, she released him, turning her head aside and blinking rapidly.

For some reason (_even though he didn't believe any of this, right?_), his heart was beating fast. "So what do you see?" he blurted out.

She shook her head, still keeping her face turned away, then grabbed a napkin from the table and blew her nose. Chase realized, with a shiver of unreasonable dread, that she'd been crying.

"No, no," she said huskily, before clearing her throat. "I'm not foreseeing a steamroller in your future or anything like that, so don't freak out. It's more like I took a look at what's already happened to you." She finally met his gaze, her own eyes glistening. "You've been hurt badly, so badly," she whispered. "You've always coped, but now you're lost and you don't know what to do. Everything is…" she moved her hands in rapid, chaotic motions, '…so confusing, and you feel you're in the wrong place, that the world is wrong around you."

Chase leaned forward, all skepticism melting away in the face of her uncanny insight. "So what can I do?" and it was more a plea than a question.

Beryl looked at him helplessly. "I wish I had the answer; really I do, Robert. The most I can tell you—and I hope this doesn't mess you up even more—is that you're right. You _are_ in the wrong place, and you are truly lost." She snorted in disgust. "Fat lot of help I am, right?"

"No, it's okay," he said, for some reason feeling the first glimmer of hope. "You have helped, more than you know. You see, half my problem is everyone's been telling me I'm crazy, the world is just as it's always been—and I was starting to doubt my own sanity. It means a lot to know that I can still trust myself."

"Yeah, you can, but here's the thing: I don't think you can fix things all on your own." She took his hand again. "I can tell you're not used to asking anyone for anything, but this time you have to. You have to swallow your pride or fear or whatever it is that drives you to be so solitary, and you have to ask for the help you need. Otherwise, you're going to be stuck in a universe of wrongness."

Chase was silent for a moment. "All right," he said at last. "All right, I'll do that." He stood up, and the barista moved out from behind the counter. He realized that he and Beryl were now the last people left in the coffee shop, and the barista had been waiting patiently to close up. Leaving a big tip to compensate for her trouble, he escorted Beryl from the shop. They stopped outside, inhaling the warm night air.

"I gotta get back," said Beryl apologetically. "My roomie is probably having fits, wondering where I am."

"Me too. Listen, I don't know how to thank you—"

"Don't worry about it. Maybe we'll run into each other some day again, Mr. Non-Geology-Student," she smirked, "and the only reward I'll need is seeing you with a genuine smile."

He squeezed her hand. "You're awfully good at this; you should think about changing your major."

"Oh, hell no!" said Beryl, scandalized. "I'd hate to do this as a job. I'm no ghost whisperer—just let me go back to my strata and magma, 'cause rocks are ever so much easier to deal with than people." She leaned up and kissed him on the cheek. "Good luck, _Doctor_ Chase," she said, and winked.

He laughed, startled and amused, and with one last wave, headed toward the large glass atrium of PPTH that loomed up ahead.

* * *

To his relief, the Diagnostics Department was dark, with no light peeping out from the blinds drawn around House's office. Chase used his key and let himself in, shrugging off his jacket with a sense of relief.

By all rights, he should be hurrying back to House's apartment to put the man's mind at ease (although House would vehemently deny being worried about him at all), but something drew him here instead. He knew he had to ask for help but dreaded confronting the keen blue stare that always managed to reduce him to a babbling schoolboy. It would be better if he gathered his thoughts here in private, maybe even write them down.

Maybe even email them before he lost his nerve.

Chase powered up the office computer, then wandered over to the coffeepot, hoping for one last cup he could heat in the microwave. To his surprise, the carafe was nearly full, an odd occurrence in this coffee-guzzling department—until he sniffed it and winced. It had the oversweet, overbuttery scent of Cameron's evil stash of flavored coffee, the one that screamed, BUTTERNUT CREAM! as it assaulted his sinuses. He quickly dumped it down the sink and started a new pot with the Columbian blend he'd bought with his own money.

No more stalling. He sighed and sat down at the corner computer, bringing up his hospital email account on the screen. Cracking his knuckles one last time, he began to write.

_Dear House,_

Okay, the easy part was over. Except…maybe "dear" was too personal? Could it be taken the wrong way? Should he address his boss as "Dr. House"—or was that too impersonal, since the man imagined them to be lovers? Should he quash that delusion, considering he was about to ask for help, or—?

"Sod it!" he muttered, and began typing again.

_Dear House,_

_I hope this reaches you soon, so that you'll know I'm all right—not that I expect you to be worried or anything. In case you were wondering where I am, I'm at the Diagnostics computer, and I'll be returning to the apartment soon. The thing is, I want to talk to you and thought I might make better sense if I wrote it down instead of blurting things out in my usual way. It strikes me that we've been talking at each other a great deal, but neither one of us has been listening, and maybe this is the best way to make our meaning clear. _

_I'll get right to the point: I need your help. Not that you haven't helped me already; you literally saved my skin last week, for which I'm more grateful than I can express. But even before that incident, I was feeling disoriented, as if I were in the wrong place at the wrong time. That feeling has only intensified with each day that passes. What's worse is that my confusion seems to be causing unhappiness in everyone around me; you must know by now I'm the reason Wilson moved out of your place._

_But I can't live a lie. I can't be this plaything you all claim I used to be. What's more, I know deep inside myself that I'm right: I don't belong here, I don't do sexual favors for all and sundry, and I'll only bring misery to myself and everyone else if they keep insisting I go against my character and upbringing._

_I wish I had the perfect solution for all of us. In truth, I don't know what to do. But if you would try to believe me, even for a little while, I would do anything to prove myself. I'll take any number of psychological tests, talk to psych doctors and counselors, even take a lie detector test. I know I can't solve this on my own, so I'm asking humbly for your help._

_I hope you'll at least think about it. Thanks for listening._

_Chase _

Chase leaned back and reread the letter for the third time. On each re-reading, it sounded more and more convoluted and confusing, so he reached out and clicked savagely on the Delete command.

Except that he missed and hit Send instead.

"Well, that's that," he sighed, echoing Beryl's earlier words, and got up to pour his last cup of coffee for the night.

* * *

House leaned back in his office chair and bounced his ball off the glass walls as he contemplated his problems. Number one, Wilson was standing him up tonight in favor of going to a retirement party for that decrepit old fart, Ferguson. Number two, he was hungry. Without Wilson to bully into picking up some sort of takeout, House was at a loss as to what he wanted to eat. Thai? Indian? Beef sandwiches? Number three…

He glared at the whiteboard through the glass. Damn Chase and his aggravating…Chaseness. The department was far too quiet nowadays, as Chase did his best to imitate a piece of office furniture. No more wacky assertions, no more outrageous acts, at least not since the Cuddy incident—and House would dearly love to know what had gone down between Chase and Foreman that night, since the arrogant neurologist now regarded his colleague with an expression that flickered between anger and guilt.

Whatever. The point was that Chase was no longer pulling his fair share of the diagnostic load. Oh, sure, he'd make the odd (_insightful_) suggestion, but let Foreman sneer or himself make a sarcastic remark, and Chase would fade into the background again, refusing to fight for his theories the way he used to. It was (_worrying_) aggravating. Add to that the permanent crease between Cameron's brows and the reproachful looks she'd send him whenever he mocked Chase, and he'd swear he was running a department full of woobie wusses, instead of the sharpest young minds in—forget that. They were definitely woobie wusses.

His computer warbled a mangled chime, making him miss his ball. House glowered. Who was idiot enough to send him an email this time of night? He pulled his hospital account onto the main screen, checking the listed messages. What the hell was THoPP anyway? Some kind of new porn site?

Opening the message, he frowned as he tried to make sense of it, even glancing involuntarily at the empty connecting office. Was this some weird Australian attempt at humor?

Then he read the message again. And again.

And jumped at his phone, frantically punching in four numbers.

"Wilson! Listen, you've got to come over here—No, I don't give a shit if you've already called a cab! Get your ass—oh, stop with the sanctimonious crap about Ferguson; man should've had the decency to die years ago. What's going on here is way more important. No, dickhead, it doesn't have to do with porn. It has to do with Chase.

"I think he's in trouble. That's right. Okay, see you in two."

* * *

_To be continued_

* * *

**Translation:** _primum non nocere _(Latin): First, do no harm. Commonly mistaken as part of the Hippocratic oath, this line is not in the oath itself but is one of the precepts of Hippocrates

* * *

**Note:** No excuses are sufficient for this extremely long gap between updates, so I'll simply say I'm sorry, and I hope to do better in future. Unfortunately, I'm unable to make promises, since the same real life pressures that caused this long delay still exist in my life. The one promise I'll make is that I _will_ finish writing this fic, no matter how long it takes me.

Thanks for reading. I truly appreciate it.

Aenisses (15-July-2008)


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